


This Woman's War

by tsukinofaerii



Series: No Soldier Unwounded [1]
Category: Marvel 1610 - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gender Issues, Genderswap, LGBTQ Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-11
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevie Rogers, the only known survivor of Operation Rebirth, has spent four years masquerading as Captain America, the hyper-masculine symbol of America. When she wakes up in a strange military hospital, surrounded by people who insist on the impossible, Stevie assumes what any right-thinking person would—that it's a secret Nazi base. All that's left is to break out and find her way back to the war. After all, she's got a promise to keep to the girl waiting on her back stateside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Woman's War

**Author's Note:**

> beta read by cursor_mundi@LJ

The second her feet touched down on enemy soil, Stephanie Rogers rolled low under enemy fire, nearly catching up on someone else's 'chute before she hit her feet. Behind and around her, men screamed as they weren't fast enough to do the same. Her shield caught the bullets she couldn't dodge, denting and jarring with every blow. She kept running, boots slapping the frozen ground. Every step rattled her up to her skull. Her ribs still hadn't finished healing from the blow they'd taken three days before. They ached as she dived and rolled behind the cover of a building. If it hadn't been for the padding at her waist, she wouldn't have risked the roll at all.

Bucky crouched beside her, a gun in one hand and his camera in the other. The men she'd brought along were clearing the way ahead, just the way they'd been ordered. There wasn't any time to be proud of them, but she'd make sure to tell them she was after the action was over. They'd earned it.

"You see that rocket?" she asked Bucky. Her throat hurt with the spray she used to lower her voice. It sounded like she'd tried to swallow sandpaper, but the spray worked better than any padding to convince the troops she was a man. "That's the target. You keep your camera on that and get your shot. Stay out of the fire. Gail'd never forgive me if I lost you."

"Got it, Stevie." When she glared at him, he grinned shamelessly. "Sorry, _Captain_. Tell you want, I'll do my best to get my hide back to New York if you do the same."

Stevie rolled her eyes and looked back to the battle, watching for her chance. Her troops were doing a good job of it, but they'd barely started. "You blow my cover, I'll tell your sergeant that you watch his ass when he's giving those speeches he likes." They both knew it was an idle threat; but Bucky grinned anyway.

"Yeah, yeah, and I'll tell Gail that you like to visit the men's showers."

"Sure, at least I've got a secret identity to maintain. What's your excuse?" Stevie grinned to herself, but didn't bother to turn around. The movement of the fight was shifting east, freeing up a line of sight to the west that was completely without enemy cover. Smoke and screams filled the cold arctic air. It was so cold that her nose was going numb. "Just get that shot."

Before he could say anything, she dived out of their cover, head down and shield up. A few stray bullets pinged it, but not many. Before she'd gone a hundred yards they stopped. She kept her shield up, racing for the ramps that surrounded the rocket. At the very top, a group of men in uniforms and lab coats were gathered around something. She'd bet dollars to dimes that was where the controls were.

How the hell had the Krauts gotten the plans for a hydrogen bomb? Those spies the top brass thought she didn't know about? Someone's head was going to _roll_, if she had to track down the dirty traitor herself.

It was the last spare thought she had before everything went wrong.

Shouts rose up from the German scientists that were working on the rocket, so fast that she couldn't follow. Bucky yelled at her through the radio in her helmet, voice high-pitched and riddled with static. "Are you crazy? What do you think you're doing? You can't fight a bomb!"

"Just get the damned picture!" Ice slid under her boot as she leapt over a railing. "I'll be fine!" It was all bravado; her guts might as well have been frozen cold as the snow. Bone cracked under the edge of her shield as she took out a lone solider on guard by crushing his skull. Bucky kept babbling questions, panicking, using words his momma would have smacked him for. She ignored him for the most part, concentrating on bunch and pull of her muscles as she barreled up the ramp.

Everything was going to Hell, and her only choice was to hang on for the ride.

Soldiers tried to block her way, kids younger than she ever remembered being going down with every blow. The ramp rattled under her feet, creaking dangerously as she raced up it. Explosions sounded under the rocket.

No, she realized. Not explosions.

It was taking off.

Guidance systems. Rocket cut-off. All the information she'd been given for the mission flashed through her mind. Once the rocket was off the ground and on its way, they'd lost the war, and that would be that. If she didn't stop the thing, no one could.

She leapt for the missile, slamming her shield into it and hanging on. It shook so hard she nearly flew off before it had reached any height at all. The shouts and screams of the men dying below her disappeared into the roar of the wind and the rockets. Her thighs gripped the barrel, barely keeping her steady. It was too wide for a decent hold, but she only needed a few minutes.

Sure as she breathed, Stevie knew what she had to do. Every man, woman and child in Washington depended on her. Maybe the whole world.

Gripping her shield in one hand, she stretched up a fist for the control box just above. One blow, two— her arm went straight through the metal sheeting. Blindly, she grabbed a handful of wires and yanked, tearing holes in the systems.

Bucky kept screaming at her, sounding more and more like the kid who'd helped ruin three of her good dresses with mud fights. "Get down— get the hell down! It's going to— you're crazy!" His voice grew so loud that the speakers screeched in feedback. "Is this some sort of guts or glory thing? God damn it Stevie, what about Gail? Don't you dare do this to us! Don't you fucking dare!"

"I know what I'm doing!" She had to raise her voice to speak over the wind. It was better that way—her voice couldn't shake as much, and God knew Bucky didn't need to hear that. "Take care of her for me!" The grenade pin took work to get out. Frost from the cold had gotten to the metal, just enough to make it stick. She breathed on it, tugging until it came free, then stuffing it inside the rocket's shell.

"Stevie you—"

The world went white.

_Heat. Explosion. Concussive force flinging her through the air. Ribs snapping as she hit the ocean. Desperate attempts to breathe. Float._

_Cold. Hard to move. Sinking._

_Ice. Numb. Dreams._

_I'm so sorry, Gail._  


***

  
_Stevie stalked through the halls of the Allied base, looking like grim death and not giving a damn who saw it. For once, she'd left off her mask, but she was still in her uniform. In any case, she was covered in enough soot and grime from her last mission that she doubted anyone even recognized the blue leather. The brightly varnished double doors at the end of the hall only took a little bit of effort to push open. At least, for her. Maintenance was going to have her hide for the lock that clattered to the floor behind her. She slammed it behind her, hard enough that the hinges cracked._

"General Phillips, sir!" She came to rigid attention in the middle of the plush office, saluting sharply. Her voice spray had worn off, but smoke inhalation took care of that for her. "Captain America, reporting, sir!"

The General raised an eyebrow and covered the receiver on his telephone. Even though he was sitting, he gave the impression of looking down his beak-like nose at her. "I don't recall telling you to report to me, Captain. You were supposed to see Sergeant Dugan."

"This is very urgent, sir," she answered, staring straight again. Hard training kept her from showing her anger in either voice or body, but she knew that if she looked at the weasel, she wouldn't be able to keep from eyeballing him. Slimy groundworm or not , he was a higher ranking officer. "There were irregularities in the mission. I felt that they needed to be reported directly to you."

"Those were not your orders, Captain."

"I've privilege to modify them, sir."

Phillips stared at her, but murmured something stealthily into the open line. Any pretense he might have made about an important call was ruined by a high-pitched giggle coming out the ear piece just before he hung up. Already florid skin flushed bright red, but Phillips had the decency not to try and pretend he hadn't been caught out.

The general folded his hands on the blotter and stared ay her for a moment. "At ease. This had better be good, Captain."

Stevie dropped from her salute and gave herself the joy of glaring. "I was going to say the same to you, sir."

"Pardon?" She could have been asking him to pass the salt for all the emotion he showed.

"You gave me insufficient information." Anger was a hard, warm buzz in her gut, spreading up through her veins. She'd never been so livid in her life. Not when her parents had shown her the door, or when the bigger boys had picked on Bucky, before Bucky'd gotten big enough to fight back. "I just saw good American boys get killed because I wasn't properly briefed on the mission."

For a desk jockey, General Phillips was in excellent condition, but when he spread his hands on the table, the softness of a man who hadn't seen combat since the Great War was obvious, "And what information do you think we withheld from you?"

Giving up any pretense at military order, she slapped her hands down on the desk and leaned forward. "I was not informed that the train's payload was likely to explode. I wasn't told that a secondary team had been sent to back us up. I wasn't told that some piss ant traitor had warned them we were coming. And I sure as hell wasn't told that the Krauts had super soldiers of their own! I blew a man's head half off his shoulders and he kept coming at me. That is what you withheld from me."

He stared at her with flat eyes, not a hint of emotion passing over his face. "And the mission status?"

"Successful, if you can call it that," she spat, baring her teeth. "Three other survivors, unless you had a third team out there that I don't know about."

"That was need to know information—"

"And I needed to know it!" Her fist came down on the heavy wooden desk. It cracked, leaving a dented crater where she'd hit. "I just saw forty-two boys die, and I'm not doing it again, do you hear me?"

Something about his stare gave her the willies, but she held her ground. When she'd first met the man, she never would have thought he was such an amoral sonuvabitch, but now she saw straight through the polish and braid.

"Are you offering to resign, Captain?" he asked carefully, each word obviously cherry-picked. "That would not be a wise decision."

"Neither was keeping vital intelligence from me." She was half over the desk, so close that she could smell the scotch on his breath. "No, I'm not resigning, because I still give a damn about this war, unlike some people in this room. But let's get one thing clear."

Phillips eyes widened as he finally realized how angry she was. He started to reach for the phone, but she slapped her hand down on it before he could even lift the receiver.

"You listen to me, sir," she growled, coughing as her abused throat protested. "If you send me on a suicide mission again because of incomplete intel, the first thing I'm going to do when I get back to base is strip down naked and foxtrot down the parade grounds. And then I'll head over to the Air Force and see if they want some US Night Witches, or I'll sign up as a WASP. I'll still serve, but I'll do it on my own terms. Is that clear?"

His chin lifted in defiance, but she heard him swallow nervously. "Captain, I can have you jailed for a lot less than this," he threatened.

The threat was so pathetic, she actually laughed. "Go ahead. And then you'll have no one to go up against the Nazis' pet projects, the US government will be out a fortune, and my little secret will still come to light." Stevie lifted her hand off the phone and took a step back. "It's your choice, sir."

For a minute, she almost thought Phillips was going to do it. He went so far as to pick up the receiver and hesitate. Then he slammed the phone back down.

"Your concerns will be considered on future operations. Dismissed, Captain."  


***

  
_Cold. Colder than before, colder than dying.Too cold to even shiver, to breathe. Chest aching, burning with cold._

"She's going under!"

"Get the paddles!"

_**Pain**._

_Let me go let me go let me go!_

"Clear!"

_**Pain**._

_Cold. Dark again. Sleep._  


***

  
_Numb. Voices calling back and forth._

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Where's Gail?_

Stevie's eyes opened slowly, wincing at the too-bright lights that shone down directly overhead. The light came from a flat panel in the ceiling, and was whiter than white. Special filters, maybe, though why anyone would bother escaped her.

What had happened to her men? To Bucky? Had they fished her out of the ocean after beating the Krauts back to Hell where they belonged? Or had someone else? There were too many questions, and not enough answers. She didn't even know why she was still alive. The explosion should have killed her.

Voices caught her attention, muffled so soft that it took her a moment to recognize the familiar cadences of American English. She closed her eyes again, trying to focus on the conversation. It was so difficult that she'd thought maybe she'd been whacked in the skull. The light still pricked through her eyelids, sending sharp jabs of pain straight through her head.

Maybe she'd died, and was in Hell.

_... regaining consciousness... Captain America's uniform..._

_...a woman... like Stark said..._

_... yes, General..._

Every muscle in her body ached worse than anything she'd ever felt after a battle. Even breathing was difficult, like someone was sitting on her chest. She rolled her head to the side, cracking her eyes again. Her vision was still too fuzzy at first, but she could see well enough to recognize doctors clustered around her, the crisp white uniforms unmistakable. The longer she focused, the easier it became, until she could make out the strange, otherworldly machines they'd hooked her up to, though colors were still too vivid.

"She's awake." One of the docs bent over to look her in the face. "We're going to patch you up, ma'am. Don't worry." His skin seemed bright gold to her confused sight, but there was no mistaking the slant to his dark eyes. Japanese, or Chinese, maybe. Not American, that was for damn sure.

She'd been captured.

Stevie closed her eyes in exhaustion. They wanted to patch her up, well, she'd let them. And then they'd see what kind of mistake they'd made in not killing her outright.  


***

  
"You're crazy. You think _now_ is the time to bring up your damned conspiracy theories?"

Tony swirled his drink, for once barely paying attention to it. It was a barely passable lower-shelf vodka. SHIELD, he'd been told, didn't make a habit of stocking the good stuff. If the Ultimates ever got off the ground, he'd either have to see about changing that, or just pack his own. "I'm telling you, Nick. From what you've shown me, the outfit she was wearing was authentic, World War Two era United States army gear. Doesn't matter if it was dyed blue, or pink, or lavender, I know vintage when I see it."

"So what? You think that lady out there's Captain America?" Nick Fury was in his usual fine fettle, which meant that he'd already scared fifty people or more into fearing for their lives, and it was only just past ten in the morning. He paced along the bank of viewing windows like a tiger in a cage, lip curled into a snarl every time he glanced over at Tony. Below, the focus of the room was a six-foot blonde woman, stretched out on the operating table.

Specifically, she was a six-foot blonde woman who just happened to be built like an ancient warrior goddess. If it was a coincidence that she'd ended up in the same clothes and location as Captain America's last known mission, Tony would become a teetotaler.

"You and I both know damn well that _Cap was secretly a woman_ crap was debunked in the sixties. The family gave so many damn interviews, you'd think it was reality TV. His brother even went to college on a scholarship because of it."

"You know me," Tony shrugged. "I've always been enchanted by the idea of statuesque blondes with thighs that could take my head off."

"Live dangerously, huh Stark?"

"You have no idea." Tony rubbed his forehead. The headache had come back, pounding in his temple like a tiny hammer. It was about time for his medication, but he'd give up drinking before letting Fury see him pop a pill. "What's the word of God, Nick?"

The pacing paused as Nick turned to stare at him. "Word of God? I don't know what you're talking about."

"If that's your best poker face, then you need to remind me to deal us a hand now and then." He jerked his chin at the view, where a dozen doctors were rushing around an operating table trying to save the life their icy Jane Doe. She really was gorgeous, in a Amazonian sort of way. Tony tended to like his women chestier, but there was something to be said for a smooth silhouette. "You didn't realize she was a woman until the ice was half melted. You talked to someone. What'd they say?"

Nick's eyebrow twitched in the slightest tell before he turned to face the bank of windows. "Nothing."

_That_ brought Tony's attention straight back to Fury. "Not even a doctored spin to sell the press?" That was so much unlike any government Tony had heard of that he wondered if Nick had even talked to a secretary. He'd heard that the new president was doing things differently, but....

"All I got was to call 'em when we had more info." Disgust was written in Nick's voice like glitter in a teenage girl's diary. "I couldn't even talk to anyone higher than some geek who runs the databases. They want fingerprints and interrogation records before they'll say anything."

"Is that why we're not on the Triskelion?"

"Couldn't get the clearance for it."

All that, and Nick thought _he_ was a crackpot conspiracy theorist. Well, it took all kinds. "We'll get that, then, and her army records."

Leather creaked as Nick threw back his head and laughed, turning to leave. "You're just bound to prove that this is your girl, aren't you Stark?"

The laugh had made Tony's headache take on entirely new dimensions of pain. He grinned through it, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Down below, the frenetic activity had calmed. Clearly, their little Janie was on her way to recovery. "Tell you what, General. If she's not Captain America, I'll buy the whole team private jets."

Light speared through the dark room as Nick headed out the door. "Get ready to lose some pocket change then, rich boy. That ain't nothing more than some mutant girl in a costume."  


***

  
_Officers stared at her as she walked to the gym. Stevie really couldn't blame them. It wasn't every day that the saw a six-foot man dressed in blue leathers. If they knew she was a woman, they'd stare even more. No one knew who she was._

There was a strange sort of comfort in that anonymity. As long as no one knew her, the secret was safe. She'd always been a big girl—tall, broad shoulders, not much bosom. It had been surprisingly easy for her to bind herself down, cut her hair and pretend to be a man. If she hadn't known better, she wouldn't recognize herself in the mirror.

Sergeant Hanson, the man in charge of outfitting her for the ruse, had joked about using a second pair of socks, but she wasn't willing to go that far. She still hadn't gotten used to having her breasts strapped down. They ached. Hanson had told her that eventually she wouldn't even notice the binding at all.

She'd been afraid to ask how he knew.

The gymnasium was completely empty except for one man, going through a one-man workout. The way he moved reminded her of a dancer—she could almost hear music. When he saw her, he paused, standing up straight and waiting for her approach. He was dressed in an undershirt and a pair of loose pants, without so much as a set of dog tags for her to see his rank on, but he held himself in a way she'd already started to identify with officers.

Chin up, she marched over and stood at attention, saluting briskly. "Reporting for specialty training, sir."

The officer barely came up to her collarbone. It didn't stop him from staring down his nose at her. His dark hair was peppered with silver, and the sun had burned his skin so dark that his wrinkle lines were visibly paler than the rest of his face. "At ease. So you're the hot shot super soldier that I'm supposed to beat hand to hand into, huh?"

It didn't seem to call for an answer, so Stevie didn't give him one. That was something else she'd already learned—when to shut up.

Silence turned out to be the right reply. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Mannering, and I have better things to waste my time on than babying the latest pet monkey to come out of the labs. Tell me why I should bother teaching you a damned thing, son."

Stevie met his eyes. They were a light, leafy green, especially startling against his dark skin. "Because," she started, thinking over her words carefully, "they're going to ship me out one way or another, and at least if you try I've got a chance of not coming back in a pine box."

He stared at her for a minute, then nodded. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Good answer. So, what do I call you?"

She only hesitated for a moment—she'd have to get used to it sometime. "Captain America."  


***

  
The next time she woke up, the docs were gone, along with most of the machines. A tube ran under her nose, but the air in it didn't smell like any sort of drug. Her body still felt heavy and stiff, but when she wiggled her toes they moved easily, and nothing seemed numb. She wasn't recovered completely, but she could fight her way out if she needed to. Hopefully, she wouldn't need to. There were better ways to escape.

"Good morning. Can you hear me?" A black man with a General's stars leaned over her, one eye covered with a patch. A black general—_right_. Couldn't Hitler's flunkies do any research at all? "Can you speak?"

Someone snorted on the far side of the room. It was a tall, olive-skinned man—Italian, probably, or some sort of Mediterranean at least—in a suit that didn't look like anything she'd ever seen. It fit too tight, and the lapels were strange. Probably some new fashion she hadn't caught up with. The lines on his face said he'd spent time at the bottom of a bottle, and his eyes were puffy enough that she bet he hadn't put it down.

Just what she wanted to deal with. A spy and a drunk.

"Shut yer yap, Stark," the fake General growled. "You're the one who wanted to be here. Let me do my job."

"She just woke up, Fury," the Italian said, crossing his arms. "We're lucky if she can hear us."

Even though she was better off if they underestimated her, it annoyed her to be written off so quickly. Stevie shook her head, feigning a look of confusion. In her best German she said, _"I don't understand English."_ Her throat was so dry it hurt. She swallowed to try and moisten it. _"Can I have some water? Please?"_

Stark lifted his eyebrows, but reached for a clear pitcher. _"You're German?"_ he asked, handing her the paper cup. Metal glinted on his wrist—the most complex watch she'd ever seen, with multiple faces and at least one large diamond that she could see. Being a spy must have paid him well. _"Here, drink up, and then we'll talk."_

She wanted to scowl at him, but forced herself to smile gratefully as he helped her sit up to drink. When she tried to drink a little spilled down the front of her hospital gown, sliding between her breasts. For his part, Stark was at least enough of a gentleman that he didn't watch it for too long. Cool water slipped down her throat, tasting faintly metallic but otherwise pure. Stark's grip on her waist was just a little too friendly, for all that his eyes didn't wander much. A womanizer too, then.

The black man crossed his arms and scowled, obviously not following the conversation, and not happy with it. That was good. She could deal with the ladies' man easier. He looked like the kind of idiot that would fall for a little leg and her slight feminine charms. Fury looked like the suspicious type.

Stevie almost rolled her eyes. Fury and Stark. What kind of false names were those? They might as well have called themselves Fake and Fraud.

"Well, honey?" Stark asked when she'd put the glass down. "Tell us about yourself."

Maybe he was smarter than he gave him credit for. Stevie looked at him blankly. Stark's blue eyes were sharp, but she was sharper. _"What?"_

_"Sorry, I forgot."_ His grin said he'd done no such thing, but she smiled back shyly and nodded. "Why don't you tell us about yourself, sweetie? What's your name? We pulled you out of the ocean. How'd you get there?"

_"My name is Anna. I was entertaining the men,_" Stevie answered immediately. The hours of drill she had in her cover story were paying off. She didn't even have to think before speaking. _"Singing, dancing. That sort of thing. There was an attack... I think I hit my head? I don't remember anything after that."_

_"Who attacked?"_ Stark had a nice voice, a little rough from drinking—now that he was close she could smell the liquor on him—but deep and gentle. He must have been a professional actor. Any trace of his natural accent was well-hidden under a good rendition of an American one. _"Do you remember any details?"_

Another sip of water gave her a chance to think, or at least to look like she was thinking. Why did they put it in a paper cup? It felt like it had wax on it, which explained why it held in the water, but wasn't it a waste? It couldn't be washed. They'd have to throw it away.

After a few minutes of silence, she shook her head. _"American? Maybe. It was dark, and everything was confusing. They came from the air while I was in the middle of a ... In the middle of my job."_

_"You weren't dressed like a dancer."_

She didn't need to fake her flush as she stared down into her cup. _"I did what I had to, okay? The troops like... working over... Captain America. I had a shield and everything."_

"What's she saying, Stark?" the "general" cut in. He was looking angrier by the moment. "What is she?"

"A soiled dove, Fury," Stark answered smoothly. His fingers worked over her back as if he were petting her. Stevie leaned into his side to keep from flinching. "One with an angle. She was working when Americans attacked."

"You believe that shit?"

"It's what she says." Stark's eyebrows lifted slightly, giving Stevie the impression of some deeper conversation going on. "Anyway, isn't that what you wanted to hear?"

Fury growled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How'd she survive being stuck in an iceberg, then? Magic? Some sort of Tinkerbell bullshit?"

_An iceberg?_ Stevie wondered, then dismissed it. It was probably another trick to get her to break cover.

"Leave that to the lab monkeys. Isn't that what you pay them for?" Stark's hand left her back and started carding through her regulation-short blonde hair. Stevie didn't even need to pretend when she closed her eyes and relaxed into the touch. Strangely, it eased her headache a little. "Stranger things have happened, General."

"Fuck." Fury rubbed his bald head. "A historic hooker. Fucking _great_. At least I'm getting some jets out of it." He grabbed a file off a table and turned for the door. "I don't have time for this. You deal with it."

"Aye, aye, sir," Stark tipped a mocking salute at the retreating back. "Someone must have pissed in his cheerios today."

_"Am I in trouble?"_ Stevie asked, keeping her voice small. It wasn't easy; she'd never been a quiet kind of gal, but her usual tone would be out of character. _"He seemed angry. Did I do something wrong?"_

_"He's always like that,"_ he reassured her, ruffling her hair. _"You get used to it."_

_"Oh."_ She twisted the plain, light green hospital blanket in her fists. Her fingers were easier to flex than they'd been when she woke up. The knuckles only cracked a little, and her muscles didn't ache so much when she used them. _"Was I hurt badly? When can I go home?"_

_"It's a little complicated."_ Stark's fingers drummed a staccato pattern against the bed rail. It was the sort of nervous movement high-energy people got into habit of. He seemed too relaxed to be that sort, but maybe the alcohol mellowed him. _"Let's start with you telling me the truth."_

The blanket ripped under her fingers. She stared up at him, eyes as wide and innocent as she could make them. It didn't look like he was going to buy it. _"What? I did tell you the truth!"_

_"You're a good actress, but not good enough to hide that you understand English. I just bought a fleet of jets for you, the least you can do is pay me back._ So what's your real name?" He switched to English seamlessly, with a wide grin.

Stevie debated her options. The trick was already up, so pretending would be useless. On the other hand, admitting it wouldn't do her any good, and would set a bad precedent. _"I don't understand. Can you say that in German, please?"_

"Why were you really in the ocean, Anna?" The soothing, gentle tone was back in his voice. It was much more prominent in English, enough that she shivered. Or maybe that was an effect of her injuries.

_"I'm sorry, I don't understand."_

"What's your rank?"

She turned away, rubbing a hand over her face tiredly. _"Why are you being like this? I thought you were nice!"_

"What year is it?"

_"Stop!"_

In the corner of her eye, Stark was starting to look more and more annoyed. "Last name?"

_"Stop it!"_

Stark shook his head and stood. "Fine. Fury will have to deal with you. But I'll tell you right now, this will be a lot easier if you work with me. I'm on _your_ side."

If she'd heard that once, she'd heard it a thousand times. It wasn't even worth a response. She kept staring straight ahead as Stark passed through her line of vision and out the door with the echoing click of a lock being turned. He could pretend to be decent as much as he liked, but he was still a German lap dog.

She'd seen the camps.

As soon as she was alone, Stevie slumped back against her pillows and took stock of the room. Clock on the wall, furniture, machines... No guards and no shackles.

This wasn't going to be as hard as she'd thought.  


***

  
The machines ended up being the part that took her the longest to figure out. Disconnecting them wasn't an option—even taking the piece of hard plastic off her finger started alarms screaming. Nurses, if they _were_ nurses, ran in to check on her as soon as they went off. One of them explained in broken German how it worked by reading her pulse, and a few others demonstrated the bed controls. It _moved_ with just a button.

Stevie'd had no idea the Axis powers were so advanced. The bomb she'd taken out had been a clue, but there was obviously a lot of intelligence that no one was letting her in on. She wished she had some paper to make notes for her report when she got back to an Allied encampment. A thought to ask crossed her mind, then fluttered away. Whatever was dripping into her through the needles made it hard to think straight. Details slipped through her fingers, and she caught her thoughts wandering.

Hopefully she hadn't been MIA for more than a week. Gail would worry if she didn't get a letter on time, and Bucky was probably in a panic.

Dinner passed. At least Jell-O was something she recognized, even if it was a strange red color with pieces of what were supposedly fruit. The rest of the meal she wasn't sure even counted as food—just broth, served with a reminder to drink it slowly.

1900 hours passed, and the ward she was in quieted. Armed patrols became easier to pick out, from the _click_ of their metal-tipped boots against the linoleum.

At 2100, the hall lights went out.

2300 ticked by. Taking out the needle didn't seem to have a reaction. Neither did anything else—no alarms sounded. There wasn't even a blip. Stevie waited until one of the regular patrols had gone by, then deliberately slipped the plastic off her finger and laid back against the pillows with her eyes mostly closed.

After a minute, the squealing alarm went off.

One minute. Two minutes. At the two-minutes, seventeen-seconds mark, the door to her room flew open. Someone rushed in, wearing the same strangely patterned loose pants and shirt that she'd assumed were the nurse's clothes, but it was clearly a man. Maybe it was a general uniform for hospital workers.

A general uniform with red, devil-horned ducks on it.

Nazis really _were_ crazy.

As soon as the man leaned over her, she slapped a hand over his mouth and flipped him down to the bed. A quick blow to the temple and he slumped, unconscious. The little plastic thing fit loosely over his finger as easily as it had hers.

The screeching alarm fell silent.

Her muscles ached stiffly as she stripped the man and tucked the man into bed, covering him up to the chin with the hospital blanket. With the lights low, there was a good chance that no one would notice the switch immediately. His uniform was a little tight across her shoulders and high at the ankle, but she could move. Luckily, his sneakers were a better fit. She'd always had large feet for a woman.

It felt bizarre not to have on a bra, or any binding at all. She'd only been out of uniform to sleep, shower and twice on leave since becoming Captain America. She felt oddly exposed, like she was running up and down the front lines right before a battle without any clothes on. It was as if at any minute someone would spring out of the shadows with a pistol, and she didn't even have a shield.

She locked the door behind her and stepped out into the hall. More of the same, flat-panel lights that had been in her room lit it in clean, even sweeps. Every third one was turned on still, making the light just dim enough to be gentle on her eyes, but didn't leave any handy shadows for hiding in. Posted signs didn't do her any good, at most containing what she assumed were room numbers and arrows pointing in the proper direction. The few that had any useful information such as _main desk_ were printed in six languages, three of which she knew—English, French and German. One she was certain was Japanese.

Stevie kept her head down and picked a direction at random, walking briskly as if she knew exactly where she was headed. If she walked long enough in one direction, she'd eventually find a window or a stairwell that would give her some orientation. A building like she was in was too well laid-out to be a camp or temporary set-up, which placed her somewhere in Axis territory.

Step one, escape. Step two, keep from being captured. Step three, make it back to a base.

The hallway turned into a large room centered around a single, circular desk. The woman manning it nodded to her in passing, barely even glancing up from her book. It was probably a slow night, Stevie reasoned. There was nothing to do, and she was dressed like someone who belonged.

The guard by the elevator was going to be harder to convince.

He was dressed in plain, close-fitting black, with a stylized eagle symbol on his shoulder that she didn't quite recognize. She ducked her face when he peered at her and reached for the down button. A plate hissed and slipped aside, revealing a thin slot about the size of business card. It flashed bright red. Over the elevator doors, a matching light flashed in time with it. Nothing suggested what it might be for. She looked over at the guard.

He met her eyes suspiciously, glancing down at the slot and then back at her. His eyes tracked down to where four inches of her ankles were showing under the too-short pants.

_Damn it._

"Ma'am, can I see your ID?"

Stevie smiled brightly and filed away _guards spoke English fluently_ for her report. He had a faint French accent—if she was on the continent, she knew exactly where she needed to go. "Of course, sir." Before he could reach for her, she ducked back and kicked him in the jaw. Her inner thighs stretched painfully, but he went down like a dropped brick. Alarms blared into life as the secretary slapped some sort of panic button.

Without looking back, Stevie bolted down the hall, following the signs that read _stairs_. When she found them, she took them in threes, practically leaping from level to level. It was rough-finished, with metal beams still showing overhead. Faint yellow light seeped through the windows in long strips, sending her from shadows to light and back again with every few steps.

More guards appeared on the second floor, three of them."You! Stop!" When she ignored the shouts, they pulled their guns. Bullets pinged off the walls around her as she ducked low. The first one went down with a quick kick to the knee and a snap of bone. His back made a good balancing point for the kick to the head that took down the second. Number three was yelling for backup into what looked like an earring the size of a silver dollar. A knee to the gut and her doubled fists to his back took care of him.

Her side cramped in protest as she bent to check the soldiers, and her leg muscles burned from the short run. How long had she been unconscious? She shouldn't have lost condition so quickly. Maybe there'd been something in the Jell-O.

A quick rummage brought up six guns—two apiece. They didn't look like anything she'd seen before, but she grabbed two of them, a belt and a few pouches of what she assumed was ammunition. There'd be time to figure it out later, and maybe the labs back in the US could get something useful out of the technology.

No time to recuperate. The last flight of stairs went as quickly as she could make them, iodine-yellow walls blurring past while her mind raced ahead. She'd lost too much time with the numbskulls on the stairs. There was no doubt they'd be waiting in the lobby, as many as they could fit. If she went out that way, she'd get swarmed under.

Rubber squeaked as she slid to a stop on the last landing. The ground floor door seemed to mock her, its little red plaque turned rusty brown by the yellow light overhead.

Slowly, Stevie's eyes rose to the beams overhead.

Every muscle and bone in her was already protesting. She was too exhausted to fight her way out of an unknown number of enemies. It would have to do.

Crouching down low, she bobbed to loosen her knees, eyes fixed upward. Before the weakness in her legs had a chance to stop her, she leapt upward, stretching for it. Her fingers caught the lower edge of the I-beam, shoulders shrieking as they were forced to take her weight. Yells and orders were audible through the door as the chaos was sorted into an ambush. A few swings to build up momentum—_careful, careful Rogers, you've only got one shot at this_— and her feet came up level with the window. One hard kick shattered it like a bad dream, sending shards of glass flying. One nicked her cheek just under the eye. Shouts started again, but her next swing arched her up and through the broken window feet-first.

Gravel grated under her as she landed, tearing a bloody hole in the knee of her pants as she rolled. Warm, thick night air wrapped around her, feeling like a shock on her skin after the chill of the hospital. Men rushed out through giant glass doors, guns waving and officers shouting incomprehensibly behind them. She ignored the pain and sprinted for the darkest part of the lot she could see, leaping a hedge and turning corners at random until her breath came short. The yells had faded into the distance, but they came from all sides as the base woke up.

Stevie leaned back against a brick wall, crouching behind a trash can. The empty lot across from her had only one street lamp to light it, and it wasn't close to her hiding spot. Her lungs and legs burned worse than they ever had in Basic. Whatever was wrong with her, there was no chance she'd be able to outrun pursuit. If they didn't just shoot her on sight. There was a good chance they'd gotten all the blood samples they needed. Any intelligence they could get out of her might not be worth the risk of letting her out alive.

Cautiously, she crept out of her hiding place, one fist planted against her side to hold back the cramps. To the south—what she assumed was south—was nothing but a long stretch of road heading deeper into the heart of the base. To the north a truck had been parked outside a dark office building. It was huge, all smooth lines and glossy white paint, with more curves than a room of Hollywood starlets. The tailgate said Ford, but it wasn't like any Ford _she'd_ ever seen.

Whatever it was, it would do.

A piece of toweling from the trash was enough to protect her elbow as she broke the glass on the passenger window. It fragmented easily, without spilling shards of glass over the seat like she expected and leaving a hole just big enough to reach through for the lock. After a bit of fumbling, she found it down by the handle, instead by the window where it belonged. She wrote it off as another example of American superiority in vehicles. Who would look for a lock _there_?

Reassuringly, the wires under the steering wheel looked exactly like she expected. Other things were out of place—the column was wrong and the she could only guess at the radio—but even Nazis couldn't change the very basics. Even the steering wheel was on the American side of the truck—maybe it _was_ really a Ford, and the Axis bastards had just changed it. That would be like them, to ruin something made in the USA just for the sake of it. Improvisation and a few tense minutes listening for searchers rewarded her with a loud rumble as the truck came to life. Lights lit across the dashboard, bright blue and scrolling, with enough dials and switches that it looked like the cockpit of a plane.

Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ she pressed would turn off the noise that blasted out of the radio. Not the big buttons, or the small buttons or any of the dials. It sounded like a cat in an ironworks, and only an occasional piece of what might have been piano suggested that someone mistook it for music. The lyrics were screamed, spiced with language so foul she'd never even heard it in the trenches.

Rather than put up with it, she wrapped her hand in the towel and punched her fist through the radio unit. Plastic and metal crunched. The noise screeched and died, blue lights fading to darkness.

Stevie stared at the broken dashboard. Trash or not, the song had been in English.

Just where the hell was she?  


***

  
"God damn it!"

The base was a mess. Nurses were panicked, guards were on high alert, and everyone with any sort of authority was doing their best to make the chaos worse, the way they always did. If it hadn't been for the one guard who actually used the head on his shoulders, their Jane Doe might not have been noticed missing until the wee hours of morning.

Triumph was sweet. "So, Nick, are you going to buy me a set of jets? Or just start stocking decent liquor?"

"We don't have proof yet."

It had gone from stubbornness to pure insanity. "Less than forty-eight hours after being removed from a chunk of ice, she took out a nurse, a security officer, three highly trained agents and escaped a military base filled to the brim with soldiers under your personal command." Tony settled back into the leather visitor's chair that he'd claimed as his own. "Furthermore, her regional German accent was distinctly New York. That's _some_ sort of soldier you've got out there."

Nick grimaced and ran a head over his bald head tiredly. Tony could relate. He'd been three inches from climbing into a car for home when he'd gotten the call, and Nick probably had gotten even less sleep lately than he had. "Say you're right. Say the US government made a genetically enhanced super soldier of a woman, then forced her to hide her identity and spent sixty years covering it up. You have any idea what kind of shit storm this is going to create?"

"I know exactly what kind of storm it's going to make, and _shit_ is only the first part." There was no glass to occupy his hand—dreadful oversight, that—so Tony fiddled with a paperweight. It was just a simple geode, probably a gift. By definition, Nick Fury didn't do frivolous decoration. "But the storm's coming, one way or the other. Grab the bull by the horns and ride." Tony shrugged. "Or not, it's your call. I'm not going to catch any fire, one way or the other."

"Man, to tell you the truth, I'd rather find out she's a Nazi agent with some sort of healing factor." Something Tony couldn't quite name passed over Nick's face. If he hadn't known better, he'd almost call it pity, but Fury's softest emotion was not-angry, so it couldn't be that. "We need to keep this under wraps. There's no way this can turn out good."

The geode clattered as Tony rolled it around the desk. Mica glinted as it rocked back and forth, shining like the tiny diamonds they could have been. "Hand it to Betty Ross and get out of her way. If anyone can put a decent spin on this, it's her. Maybe there's some feminist angle. Or a tragedy—the public loves a good sob story. Find out who her boy was and set up a reunion."

"You know damn well it's not that easy. You don't fool me, Tony." Nick's single good eye glinted as much as the geode. "Just dying to say it, aren't you?"

"I'm not here for my health, if that's what you mean."

The rock, a hard place and a valley of knives flashed over Nick's expression. He really was bad at hiding his thoughts. "Alright, you win. I'll talk to Betty, give her a hypothetical sit rep—leaving _out_ the history lesson—and we'll let her spin the bullshit while we look for the lady Captain."

Tony grinned and leaned forward, for the moment feeling like a kid back in college again. "Can I say it?"

"You're going to anyway, so knock yourself out."

Bliss without a bottle. "I _told_ you so."  


***

  
Her biggest worry turned out not to be a concern at all. The security check point that she would have had blocked off as soon as the escape was reported didn't have so much as a bar in front of it. She drove through without even needing to talk to a guard. As grateful as she was for it, the basic lack of security grated at something fundamental in every bit of training she'd ever had.

General Patton would _not_ have approved.

Lights colored the low clouds on the horizon in every direction, so clearly she was in a city. She headed north—if she kept in one direction, she'd find someplace safe to drop the truck and blend in with the locals. It was always easier to get lost in another group of people than anywhere else, and with luck there'd be a newspaper or something she could read. Water ran along the left side of the road, far enough away that she could only spot it in glimpses. Following a coastline wasn't always a guarantee, but it was better than turning into the city and wandering in circles.

She'd barely driven any distance at all before seeing as sign of her location. When she did, she nearly drove the truck into the water. Only a quick spin saved her from going over the edge. Stevie stared at the sign blankly, gripping the steering wheel so hard that it cracked under her fingers.

_Fort Hamilton High School._

Bile rose in her throat. She knew Fort Hamilton. It was practically her own back yard. It was where she'd joined Project Rebirth, where she'd returned to before shipping out for the first time. The school had opened just before she'd left New York, and it didn't have a brightly lit glass sign.

Plastic splintered again as she lunged across the center console and nearly ripped the door off the glove box. Flashlight, gloves, napkins—she raked it all out until she found the manila envelope she was expecting. Her hands were shaking as she pulled the papers out and unfolded them, scanning the registration papers.

_Issued: July 19, 2010._

The papers fluttered to the floorboard as they slipped from her fingers. Carefully, hands still unsteady, she pulled the truck off the road and climbed out, staring at the horizon. It was wrong. There were too many buildings, some of them were too tall and some just missing completely. But when she squinted, she could pick out the familiar skyline from the changes.

She'd just gone AWOL and had broken out of her own base.

A slow, hysterical laugh built in her stomach, rising up through her chest and threatening to double her over. She choked it down, leaning back against the truck for support. She didn't _feel_ ninety years old. A glance down reassured her that she didn't look it, either. Everything about _her_ was exactly the same as when she'd parachuted down for her last mission. Even her hair was the same ready-for-a-trim length it had been. Had she slept away sixty years, like some twisted version of Sleeping Beauty, or a science fiction pulp?

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Stevie stared at the school, not really taking in the details. Her gut said that she should head back to base, find General Fury—or even that Stark fellow—and see if they knew how to help her.

But it was obvious that they hadn't expected her to be a woman—at least, they'd never asked if she actually was Captain America, which they would have done had they known the truth. There was no reason for them to believe her, and she didn't have any way of proving herself. Back in the war, she'd had enough trouble with the people who knew talking down to her, and Stark seemed like the kind of sleazebag her mother had warned her about. He probably bought girls dinner just to get up their dresses.

The damage had been done when she ran, and nothing would undo it. There'd be no harm in finding out more for herself before going back, _if_ she went back. It was tactically sound, at least.

Decided, Stevie climbed back into the still-running truck and turned down what she finally recognized as 83rd street to get off of the obvious road. Brooklyn was a place she could navigate better without a vehicle, but she didn't know what might have changed. There was a library close by the base. If it wasn't there anymore, she'd find another one. She needed information: first to figure out what might have happened to her, and then to figure out how to get back to her own time.

She didn't let herself think that maybe there wouldn't be a way, that she'd be trapped in a strange decade for the rest of her life. Someone had to make sure that Bucky didn't get himself killed trying to get a photograph, and she'd promised Gail that she'd see her again. As long as they'd known each other, Stevie had never broken a promise to her, and she'd be damned if a little thing like time travel would be the start of it.

The library was exactly where she expected it to be, which was closer to the base than she was comfortable with. She parked the truck a block away and left it, hoping that the distance would at least confuse pursuit. It had an oversized hooded sweater in the back, so big that it came down over her hips and hid the guns. Her fingers brushed over the Red Sox design on the front as she straightened it out, tracing the scrolling letters. Guilt nibbled at her for having stolen from some poor soldier, but not enough to stop her. If she ever met the kid, she'd apologize.

On foot, New York looked more like itself. Buildings that she recognized seemed to appear every time she turned her head. If she closed her eyes, it even sounded like home, with only a few differences. Even the faint sound of jazz drifting from a passing car was familiar.

It was the strangest thing she'd ever felt, being homesick at home.

Library hours were long over by the time she trotted up to the dark building. Letters printed on the glass doors announced that it would open again at nine Monday through Friday, and later on weekends.

She hoped it wasn't a weekend.

Finding a safe, comfortable nook on the side of the building, she settled in for a long vigil. It was a temperate night, and the worst the clouds overhead were going to do was get her a little damp. Escaping Fort Hamilton had exhausted her, and she didn't have anywhere else to be.

Leaning back against a concrete wall, Stevie closed her eyes.  


***

  
_"Wowee," Gail whistled as Stevie took off her helmet. She was sprawled over the bed in just a shift and her stockings. "Who's that lovely lady under all that padding? It can't be my Stephanie." The warm glow from the lights made her hair look more orange that auburn, and no amount of powder could hide her freckles. "She's shorter than that."_

Stevie hadn't seen those freckles in eight months. She wanted to count every one of them, even the ones on Gail's shoulders and back. _Especially_ the ones on Gail's shoulders and back. "What do you think?" She ran her fingers through her buzz cut. It still felt bizarre to have her hair chopped short. Every time she shook her head, she expected her usual braid to brush her shoulder blades. "Do I pass for a guy?"

"Not a chance. You could never be mistaken for a guy." Gail's toes hooked in Stevie's waistband. "Every man who meets you is going to be confused into thinking he's like James. You're too gorgeous." Carefully, she used her grip to tug Stevie closer to the bed.

Laughing, Stevie went with her, dropping her helmet when her knees touched the edge of the bed. Gail's knees slipped up to rest around Stevie's hips, balancing in the crease where her hipbone stopped and her costume began. "You think so? I've got enough padding on me to survive a fall off the empire state building, and the brass are still complaining that I look too much like a girl."

Gail propped herself up on an elbow, red hair falling down around her bare shoulders. It had grown since Stevie'd gone off to the medical center and was almost as long as Stevie's used to be. "Good luck to them keeping it a secret," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "What are they going to do, hide you with the nurses and put you in a wig? You hate needles."

That had been bothering Stevie too, but she tried not to think about it. It wouldn't be her decision, whatever was decided. "We'll see."

"I guess we will." Strong thighs tugged at Stevie's hips playfully until she obediently fell forward, one arm landing on either side of Gail's ribs "Aren't you even going to give me a kiss? I've been waiting since you walked in the door, but you've just been playing with your shield." Gail's lower lip trembled in a pout.

"You're doing this just to get kisses," Stevie accused, staring down at her. She'd never seen Gail pout like that. It gave Stevie the strangest urge to bite her lip.

"Maybe a little more than kisses?" Gail tugged at her belt, slipping it from the buckle. Metal clinked as the thick leather was slowly pulled aside. "I have a thing for Army women, you know. Can't resist 'em. It's the uniform."

Stevie gave in to impulse and planted a kiss on Gail's still-pouty lip. "I'm the only Army woman there is," she murmured, most of her attention drawn away by Gail's breath on her cheek.

"Isn't that a coincidence?" Gail asked brightly, just before drawing Stevie down into a kiss.

When the kiss broke, Gail twisted her fingers in Stevie's freshly cut hair. "Promise you'll come back to me?" she whispered.

A lump rose in Stevie's throat. "I promise."

"Miss? Hey, miss?" Someone shook her shoulder.

Stevie jolted awake with shout, reaching for her gun. Her eyes darted around, taking in the familiar-foreign surroundings and the big black woman who'd woke her. Sunlight edged along the pavement, bright enough to make her eyes water. _Not a fight,_ she reassured herself, breath coming hard. _Not a fight. I'm safe. It's okay._

The woman—Nadine by her name tag—clutched her chest and laughed nervously. Sunlight danced off the sterling silver pendant that dangled around her neck from a thick chain around her neck. It was a hammer, shaped like one of the old war hammers Stevie remembered from history lessons. "I didn't mean to frighten you." Her hair was going iron grey and had been clipped short against her skull. She looked like someone who'd raised a lot of babies, and had moved on to spoiling a lot of grandbabies. Something about her smile made Stevie's tension ease away. "Are you okay, miss?" Nadine asked, dark eyes soft. She kept glancing down at the ragged hole in the knee of Stevie's pants, then at the unbandaged cut on her cheek, obviously trying not to comment. "You were sleeping pretty hard there. Annie thought you might be sick."

"I'm fine," Stevie promised, sagging back against the wall. "I just got here a little early and dozed off while I waited. Is the library open yet?"

"Opened an hour ago." The librarian knelt down to meet her eyes. She was wearing _pants_, Stevie realized with shock. Not that women didn't wear pants; she'd had a pair when she worked on the lines as a riveter. But librarians and teachers were supposed to be more respectable than that. "Are you sure you're okay? You look like you had a rough night, or maybe a week of them. That's a nasty cut. It's going to want stitches."

"You can say that again, lady." Smiling pulled at the mark on her cheek, but it wasn't too bad. Her knee throbbed worse, and it was such a low level of pain that she'd nearly blocked it out. "I'm fine. Really."

"Well, you know best." Nadine patted her shoulder and stood."You need anything, you let me know, alright? I work behind the circulation counter. I just might have a box of donuts that could use eating. And some coffee in the staff room."

_Coffee._ Stevie hadn't had real, decent coffee in weeks. Next to that, the faint, distressed grumblings of her stomach were nothing. The last place she'd been stationed for any length of time had served it too strong, half burnt and cold. Not even her tongue had been able to survive it, and she'd been able to eat Gail's meatloaf with only a little trouble. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll remember that. It's very kind."

Nadine beamed as if she'd delivered up a bouquet. "Aren't you just the polite one? I'm sure I'll be seeing you."

Stevie watched Nadine head off, resting her head back against the side of the building. At least the civilians were nice enough in the future. It didn't say anything about the state of the rest of the world, or how she'd get back, but it was good to know. Comforting, in a way. She was pretty sure no one under the Reich would have offered her food.

She stretched her legs out for a few minutes, giving Nadine time to get well ahead of her, then stood. The guns had shifted around while she'd slept, one poking her spine and the other her gullet. Straightening them out and making sure they were covered _without_ removing the sweater ended up requiring her to pull her arms back inside and squirm it around. Awkward barely began to cover it, but the last thing she needed was to catch the eye of any authorities before she'd even completed basic reconnaissance. Going into a public building with a visible weapon was just asking for trouble.

The interior of the library was peacefully silent and dim. She paused inside the door, breathing in the familiar smell of books and wood polish. A lady behind her coughed ominously, glaring and gesturing for her to move out of the way. Stevie apologized quietly and ducked to the side, craning her neck.

Strange things caught her eye at every turn. Some sort of scanner rested in its own little line beside the main desk. It beeped every time someone passed a book over it, and the librarians used something hand-held that did the same. People in the back were perched beside rows and rows of what looked like nothing so much as small televisions. A gentleman in a suit walked past her, talking into something about the size of a deck of cards. When one of the librarians cleared her throat ominously, he grinned sheepishly and stepped back outside.

Cars didn't fly. No one seemed to have a jetpack. There definitely weren't any domes over the buildings. But still, it was undeniably the future. When she got home, she'd never trust another science fiction flick ever again.

If she got home.

The little televisions would probably be more trouble than they were worth to figure out, so she passed them by and went straight for the books. The Dewey Decimal System, at least, was reassuringly familiar. It only took her a little effort to find 973, American history. She pulled the books that seemed most relevant—one on the war, one on recent history, and one that looked like some sort of text book.

Then she went just up the row to biographies.

There weren't very many books about Captain America, and all of them were thin. That was a strange breed of relief. She'd never wanted to be famous, except maybe when she'd been a girl and had played at movie stars with Gail and Bucky. Joining the super soldier project, putting on the mask and carrying the shield—none of it had been so she'd leave her name in history books, other than in the margins where it was unavoidable.

In the end, she took just one book to flip through, even though she doubted it would be useful. A single glance at the collection of covers had told her what she'd expected: every single one of them had a man on the front, in _her_ uniform. Her identity was obviously still a secret, enough that even sixty years later a General didn't know it.

That was somehow a lot less of a relief. There was no way she'd ever convince anyone that a _woman_ was Captain America. But without help, the chances of getting back to her own time were slim to nil.

Stevie stared down at the books, weighing them as she sat them down on a table. Thousands of pages collected, and none of them would tell her exactly what she most wanted to know. Going back to the army seemed like a better idea with every minute. At least in a military setting, she'd be around people she could deal with and understood, even if she _was_ seventy years out of date. There might even be old soldiers still alive that she'd served with. Maybe Bucky was still out there. Or Gail. Even though logic said that the chances of living to be ninety years old were small, she couldn't imagine either of them dead.

Sighing, she sat down to page through her own biography first, to see what she was up against.

> Steven Grant Rogers, American hero and patriot, was born in 1915 to Sarah and Joseph Rogers. He grew up in a small town called Independence, Illinois, located along Highway 74, which is now the location of the Captain America Memorial Museum.
> 
> He was a thin child, beset by a rare childhood illness, and so often missed school that he was eventually withdrawn for health reasons at age eight. His father, a well-known doctor, cared for him as best he could, while his mother schooled him at home to ensure that he didn't fall behind. Best friends Jonathon Buchannan and Arnie Roth...

The opening was depressingly bad, and the rest of the book only got worse. _Childhood Sweetheart_ was one of the chapters, but a quick glance showed that it was filled with the life of some woman named Jane Hurley. Gail wasn't mentioned, the pseudo-Bucky died tragically in their teenage years, and "Steven" joined the project at eighteen, moving the super solider program earlier in history by nearly an entire decade. The only facts that seemed even close to correct were the battle reports after she'd become Captain America, and her listing as KIA in '45—months before the surrender of Germany, the book said. As accurate as it wasn't, she wasn't sure if she should trust even that for a fact.

At least her parents had cashed in after sending her out on her own. The book was littered with interviews about how much they'd loved "Steven". It was good to know _someone_ had gotten something out of rotten, filthy lies.

Carefully, Stevie set the book down, closed it, and pushed it to the far corner of the table, where she wouldn't be tempted to destroy a public library's property. She had brief, loving thoughts of suing for libel, but it was clear that the American government had done it deliberately. The book even had a picture of "Steven" and his family, some muscular, nameless man standing grinning with her parents and brother. Douglas still looked fifteen, so it was probably taken just after she'd vanished.

Clearly, her entire life had been cheerfully buried inside a wall and whitewashed until it was unrecognizable, even down to her home state and birthday. She wondered if she'd even be able to find her own birth records, or her volunteer paperwork for Project Rebirth. She knew her social security number by heart—had "Steven" been given that too, along with the rest of her life?

Stevie laid her forehead against the table and closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing. She didn't even have the heart to open the other books. What did it matter, everything that happened after she'd blacked out? All she wanted was to go back, and God knew if that was even possible. There was nothing she could change or fix or apologize for. She'd known that there was no way the army would ever admit they'd let a woman do the work she had, but to erase everything else...

"Don't want any donuts, huh?" Nadine settled into a chair beside her, pulling one of the general history books over. Stevie watched out of the corner of her eye as she flipped through the pages idly. "Studying? You look about the right age for college."

"Nothing like that." Good manners said she should sit up, but Stevie was too tired to bother. The librarian didn't seem to mind, and she didn't particularly want to look around and see all the signs that she wasn't home. "Just looking a few things up. For personal reasons."

"That's as good a reason as any." The book pages thumped together softly as Nadine closed it. "I know I'm just an old lady sticking her nose in where it's not wanted, and there's a lot of 'personal reasons' that no one wants to talk about, but you look like you need a shoulder."

Stevie risked a direct glance, resting her cheek on the table to meet Nadine's eyes. Even though she'd spent all the last day in the hospital, and had slept harder than she'd meant to by the library, she felt exhausted down to her bones. It had been a long, long time since she'd been on speaking terms with her own mother, and Nadine looked like she had enough mothering in her for three of Stevie.

What could it hurt? It wasn't like she had to give any details, and getting friendly with the locals wasn't always a bad idea. "You ever feel like the whole world wants to pretend you never happened?"

"I can't say I have." A firm, soft hand landed hesitantly on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Stevie had to look away from the sympathy in her expression. "It sounds rough. Why don't we go to the back and get some coffee in you while you tell me about it? And then I think I've got some clothes in my car that'll fit you. My son's a big boy, and they'd be better than those things you've got on."

Wearing something that she hadn't stolen sounded nice. Better than nice. "Thank you."

"Well, then, come on." Like a true librarian, Nadine collected the books and stacked them on the return cart before Stevie could even stand. Her hand slid around Stevie's upper arm, squeezing warmly as she escorted her back behind the short stacks.

"Do you work out, girl? Body build?" She squeezed Stevie's arm again, higher up as she pulled her into a room marked _Staff Only_. "I know men who aren't near as muscular as you."

"Really?" Stevie squirmed awkwardly as she was pressed down into a chair and Nadine bustled around making coffee. She'd always liked the body the serum had given her. Because of it, she could do what needed to be done for America, but there was no denying that she wasn't really feminine anymore, not the way Gail had been, or like the girls who'd winked at her when she was in Allied-friendly towns. She didn't even have breasts, really—they were small enough that she could go without a bra without being too uncomfortable, but she'd been pretty small before the project too. "I guess I just am. I never thought about it."

Something in her voice must have been off, because the older woman paused pouring to look at her. "Hm, that so?" She turned to finish pouring the coffee. "Well, it's nice to see a pretty girl who takes care of herself. Does this old soul good."

"You're not old," Stevie protested immediately, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary.

Nadine just smiled and brought over two mugs, with a pot of sugar and another pot of some sort of white powdery stuff. A second later, she put down a box of donuts. Handle-first, she slid the big green mug towards Stevie and sat down.

"Why don't you have a bite, then tell me about yourself? What's your name?"

"I'm—" _Captain America_. She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying it. "I'm Stephanie." In the four years since she'd first taken the position, she'd only introduced herself with her Christian name a handful of times. The name felt strange on her tongue, too heavy. "Stephanie Rogers."

Saying both didn't help.

A nod and an odd, quirked little smile answered that, as if Nadine didn't really believe her. That was okay. Stevie didn't really believe herself.

"Alright, Stephanie Rogers. I'm Nadine Winters. Tell me what's on your mind."

Procrastinating, Stevie took a long sip of the coffee. It was nice and hot, and the donuts had enough powdered sugar on them that they looked like Christmas decorations more than food. Cautiously, she helped herself to a donut. It had been years since she'd had a donut. Just holding one felt more surreal than the green, glowing numbers on the machine that had had the coffee.

"I..." Tightness clogged her throat, forcing her to clear it. "I don't know where to start."

Nadine added sugar and the other—it acted like powdered milk—to her yellow mug. "A book I once read said something like, start at the beginning, then when you get to the end, stop."

The beginning. Stevie could do that. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth and started to speak.

Talking to Nadine, it turned out, was easy. _Not_ talking to her was hard. Just sitting in the library's staff room with a hot, fresh cup of coffee and an understanding smile tried to drag things out of her that she hadn't thought of in years. She even caught herself wanting to explain about Gail and what had happened with her parents—_we don't deal with your kind here, missy!_—but she bit her tongue before putting her foot in it. That would get her tossed out for sure, and she couldn't think of anywhere to go.

Somehow, she managed to put together enough of a story to pass muster. It skirted enough of the truth, touching on her being out of place, with no where to go. The details stayed fuzzy, but they were good enough for government work. By the time Stevie had started on how she was hiding from her "friends", Nadine had quietly nudged a box of disposable handkerchiefs toward her, even though she really didn't need them.

She hated every lie that dropped from her lips. Nadine was such a swell lady, she didn't need to have Stevie fibbing to her.

"So that's the short of it," she finished quietly, hands wrapped around her mug and staring down at the crumbs of her donut. Having something solid in her stomach again grounded her in a way the coffee hadn't managed. She felt like she might even be able to stomach going back to Fort Hamilton and asking for help. "I need to get home, but I don't know how, and I don't even know if I can."

Nadine nodded and sipped her own coffee, watching her over the rim like she might start wailing. "I've seen a lot of girls like you," she said conversationally. "You don't have anything to call your own, and you're looking for something to do with yourself, right? Lost your path, trying to find it again."

After a moment of thought, Stevie nodded hesitantly. "Something like that," she agreed. It was a bit literal, but pretty much on the dime. "I just want to get home," she added, just in case Nadine was thinking of setting her up in a job. The last thing she wanted was to disappoint the lady.

"Alright, then here's what we're going to do. I'm going to bring you that bag of clothes that's in my trunk, and you see what'll fit you."

That seemed easy enough, so Stevie nodded again. The hospital worker's clothes didn't fit well at all. Anything that gave her more room to move would be a blessing. "Thank you. I—"

A soft, warm hand settled over Stevie's on the coffee cup. In spite of herself, she flinched away, years of training to keep her hands free making her pull them back to her. There was no way to disguise the move for what it was. She cursed the reaction. It was moves like that that would reveal her to enemy agents.

Nadine pulled her hands back to herself, leaving them carefully in plain view on the table. "I'm not done yet. While you're doing that, I've got a friend I want you to talk to. He just happens to be in town right now, and he's got a way of putting things in perspective."

Stevie lowered her eyes, jaw clenched tight. "A friend, ma'am?"

"A friend. He's not government, or police, and all I want you to do is talk to him." Without looking up, Stevie couldn't see the other woman's expression, but she expected to see pity. Her voice had turned soft, like someone speaking to a wild animal. "Maybe he can help you."

"No one can help me."

"Try? You can call it payment for the clothes."

What did she have to lose? She didn't have anything but time to spend, and she really did owe Nadine a debt. If just talking to someone would make her happy, it seemed small enough. It was probably a shrink, or someone's father. Five minutes, easy.

"Okay, I'll do it."

"Great." Coffee came close to sloshing as Nadine stood, bumping the table. "You just wait right here and have another donut. I'll be right back."  


***

  
Jan crossed her legs and slouched forward, resting her cheek in her hand. Fury had gotten everyone and their grandmother out of bed the night before to catch the runaway whatever it was, and they were all feeling it. Her hair was a mess, and her skin felt stiff with exhaustion. Next to her, Hank was barely keeping his eyes open. The only person looking even close to awake was Stark, and he was already drunk. Or probably still drunk.

Fine team of misfits, they were. "So you want us to search the city thoroughly, but not get noticed? What kind of magicians do you take us for?"

"And he won't tell us what we're looking for either," Hank reminded her in a sleepy  
drawl. "Anything out of the ordinary covers pretty much all of New York."

A bump of her shoulder against Hank's rewarded Jan with his cheek resting against it. Banner wasn't there—the Hulk was exactly the opposite of what Fury was asking for. That meant it was just the Pyms against the might of Nicolas Fury. "What he said. Own up, Fury, you've got to give us something to go on. Tell us what's happening, since you've obviously already told Stark."

To Jan's complete and utter surprise, Fury glanced at Stark, who shrugged. "Your call." He was wearing a suit that probably cost ten grand, but he wore it like it came from WalMart. His tie was A-W-O-L, collar unbuttoned, and the coat was tossed over the back of his chair. "To tell you the truth Nick, I think security clearance is a moot point. They'll find out eventually."

She'd never seen Fury's shoulders slump so obviously. It only lasted a second before they were straight again, and Jan wondered if she'd seen it at all. "Fine. Here's the way it is. At 0800 hours, I got a call from the Pentagon confirming that our find in the ice is, indeed, Captain America."

Hank perked up immediately. "That's great!" he crowed, straightening in his seat. "When do we meet him?"

"You don't."

Lines of confusion crossed Hank's forehead, but Jan just snorted in disgust. "You lost him, didn't you? The find of a century, and he got up and ran out the door. That's what all that shit was about last night."

"Not exactly." Fury paced back and forth, hands locked behind his back. Jan didn't bother to watch him after the first about-face. It just made her sleepier. "Yes, the Captain escaped last night, but that's just the start of things."

Stark kicked up his feet, propping them on the meeting table. "Stop being a drama queen, Nick. What our illustrious leader doesn't want to say is that the good Captain's civilian identity was finally released." He grinned like the words had sprinkles on top. "Our beloved hero of old is no other than Stephanie Anne Rogers, daughter of Joseph and Sarah, two of the most well-paid government shills since we were a bunch of colonists tossing tea into the harbor."

Hank blinked. Fury glared out into middle distance. Jan just goggled, trying to wrap her mind around it. Everyone had heard of that old conspiracy—it was right up there with Area 51 and the grassy knoll. She would have expected Area 51 to be more likely. "How the hell did that happen? How do you hide something like that for sixty years? Or in the middle of a world war?"

"The only people who knew were the president, the American generals of the time, the specialists who treated her and one private—James Barnes, her fiancé." Stark was enjoying himself too much, waving his hands in the air as he made his points and generally acting like a kid meeting Santa. "Apparently, the secret was so deeply buried that no one alive knew what the hell Nick was talking about when he told them that what he'd thought was Captain America was actually a woman. They had to dig out the old records from the Project Rebirth to compare fingerprints."

"It took finding some history geek in the archives and a lot of dumb luck." Nick rubbed his head, something he did when he thought the whole world was designed to piss him off. "We've wasted billions of dollars trying to recreate the serum, when the whole problem might have been locked up because of a damn y-chromosome. Banner's so pissed he's close to Hulking out. The Pentagon's looking like a bunch of woman-hating sons of bitches, and I hear the President's going to be sleeping on the sofa in the oval office for a while."

"And the press hasn't even heard yet." Really, someone needed to shut Stark up. By the look Fury was giving him, he was about one more breath from being tossed out. "There's no way this is staying under wraps for long. There are SHIELD agents all over New York looking for a six foot blond woman. One of them will talk to the wrong person."

"So, we've got a genetically enhanced super soldier fresh from World War Two out there who may or may not have a grudge against the United States government for erasing her existence, but who is probably flipping out every time she sees a cell phone," Jan summarized. "And we've got to find her before she does something like level a building with a daycare in it."

"Got it in one, Mrs. Pym."

She sighed and slumped back. "Great. Just what I wanted to do on a Monday morning."  


***

  
Men's clothes were stranger than anything Stevie would have expected, even after the hospital. They fit, mostly, except where some of the shirts pulled across her breasts and shoulders, but they were just outright strange in some ways. The piles were neatly sorted into tops and bottoms, but beyond that she didn't know what to think of it all.

There were skulls, and fanciful designs, and things that looked like Chinese or Japanese writing, but didn't say anything she'd learned to read in training. T-shirts had writing across the front and back, or pictures, and all of it drew attention to a bust she hadn't really had visible in a long time. Some of the pants fit like they were made for three men, and some of the rest fit right but only came down to her shins and had all sorts of extra pockets. And even with the pants, some of them had dragons or paint or _holes_ worn in fabric that was otherwise in good condition.

Stevie pressed one of the few acceptable pairs of blue jeans against her frame, eyeing them suspiciously. Her clothes had never included much in the way of denim. Before joining the army, she'd preferred skirts, and during the war she'd mostly worn her blue leathers. They weren't even decently _blue_ jeans. They were black, with extra pockets on the thigh. The pockets would be handy for her stolen guns, at least, but the extra weight would pull them down on her hips. Hips which were her only saving grace, because they were easily three sizes too large at her waist.

In spite of all that, they'd at least be more comfortable than what she was already wearing, and they'd hide the stubble on her ankles where she hadn't had time to properly shave before her last mission. _That_ was already frustrating enough without having it be public. Her hair, her clothes, her make-up—she'd even lost her regular cycles because of that medicine they gave her. It had been necessary to serve her country, but the sick twist in her chest every time she looked in the mirror and saw someone else just reminded her of what she'd given up. Shaving had been the one thing she'd allowed herself during the war. Doing without for however long it took was going to drive her around the bend before long, and that was unacceptable. It was just a little hair, of all things. She had bigger things to worry about.

Shaking off the guilt, Stevie turned to the other pile of clothing. For tops, her choices were a bit better. Some of them were just confusing—what in the world was this _Metallica_ thing?—but there were enough simple options that she could actually choose. In the end, she decided on a simple blue shirt with a reassuringly familiar S icon on the chest. Even though it was one of the bigger shirts, it still wasn't large enough for comfort; the sleeves were too narrow, and it pulled tight across her shoulders, wrinkling the logo and making her unmistakably female. That was something she'd just have to live with

Superman, at least, seemed to have survived the decades.

She did what she could with the liquid soap and the sink in washing up, wetting her hair so that at least it would be a little cleaned. As short as it was, she could get away without washing it for a little while longer. Nostalgically, she thought of the hair she'd left on the barber room floor in 1941. It hadn't been _very_ long, but without it she looked too mannish. No one would ever be able to pick her out as a woman at a distance.

The disposable towels were almost useless, but she managed to clean the important bits, and emerged from the ladies room feeling much closer to composed. Her knees, it turned out, weren't scraped too badly. The scabs were already peeling. She doubted they'd be there for more than a couple of days.

Even though being almost clean was a luxury, there was still a nagging churn in her stomach that couldn't be blamed on the donuts, but she could handle that. Her priorities were to talk to Nadine's friend, decide what to do next and find out if she could get home or not.

There wasn't any time to lose control.

Nadine was waiting behind the circulation desk, talking to a tall blond man. Stevie wrinkled her nose at his hair—he must not have cut it in nearly a year, and she was _positive_ he was wearing earrings. But his beard was neatly trimmed, at least, which counted for a lot. It wasn't until she stepped up beside him that she realized exactly _how_ tall he was. She was used to being taller than even most men, and the man had at least four inches on her.

Feeling strangely tiny for the first time since she'd finished growing, Stevie straightened her shoulders and leaned against the far curve of the counter, waiting for them to finish speaking. The counter was smooth, polished wood, old and dark as if it had aged that way rather than just been stained. Her index finger followed the grain as it looped around in soothing waves.

Once upon a time, she'd had nice nails, and nice hands. Large, but pretty. Now her nails were broken and blunted, clean but ugly with wear. And her hands had calluses in odd places, obvious rough spots where the strap on her shield had rubbed and scars strewn across the knuckles where gloves sometimes weren't enough protection.

_I miss having your hands around. You were always so good with them, and there's a lot of things in this house that could use a good, steady pair. Shelves, the garden shed, that rickety old furniture in the spare room. You take care of them for me, and I'll make sure to put them to good use when you come home. Take care of the rest of you too, of course, but mind those hands!_

"Stephanie?"

Stevie's head jolted up. Damp blonde hair flopped onto her forehead, making her brush it back irritably. One of these days, she needed to get it buzzed again, before it started to be a give-away. "Yes, ma'am?" A worried frown tugged at Nadine's mouth. Had she missed several attempts to get her attention? "I'm sorry, I must have been woolgathering. What did you say?"

That seemed to be enough of an excuse. The frown vanished as Nadine reached across the dark wood counter to her arm. "I said, I'm sorry we kept you waiting, honey. You came up so quiet, we didn't even hear."

"It's fine," Stevie insisted, shaking her head. The man watched her with a strange, intense sort of expression. He'd come down the stretch of counter with Nadine, and lounged close enough that Stevie could count his earrings without trying. On her arms, the hair stood up, as if she were in a lightning storm. "I didn't want to interrupt."

An amused sigh showed what Nadine thought of that. "Well, you're not interrupting now. Stephanie, this is my friend, the one I wanted you to talk to."

The big man extended a hand. His lips curved in a warm, welcoming smile. It was the smile of a real bastard, or of a real nice guy. Trouble was, there'd be no telling which he was right away.

Cautiously, Stevie shook his hand, glancing upward. He had a good handshake—firm, steady, but not aggressive. "It's good to meet you, sir."

"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Stephanie," he returned, teeth gleaming. While not impossibly thick, he definitely had an accent. "My name is Thor."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Vague, schoolgirl memory of stories that seemed filled thunder and snow rose up in her mind. "Like the Norse god?"

Like the rest of him, his laugh was big and hearty. More than a couple nearby library workers glared in their direction, but neither Nadine nor Thor seemed to care. "Exactly like the Norse god," he grinned. "Why don't we step outside and have a talk? The sun's good for the spirit, and people don't get it enough these days."

That was something she could get behind. There was something assertive about Thor that made her want to trust him. He acted like a man used to being listened to, like some of the better officers she'd met in the field. Charisma _poured_ off of him. Strangely, he reminded her a bit of her father.

Just the thought of that was enough to make her wary. "Just out front."

They left Nadine working behind the counter, doing something strange with a typewriter thing and one of the little televisions. There was no paper involved, but Stevie shrugged it off as something as she'd have to have explained to her. Maybe the paper was underneath the counter.

Sunshine was as good as promised. The last of the bad weather had cleared away, leaving a robin's egg blue sky with only a few puffy white clouds skittering across it. After moving away from the doors, Stevie turned her face upward and let the warmth soak into her bones. It felt like the first time she'd been really warm in ages.

_"How'd she survive being stuck in an iceberg, then?"_

Maybe it was. Had she really been trapped in ice? That seemed even less likely than traveling through time. Of course, a girl with a bad leg becoming a national hero was pretty rare too.

"So, Stephanie," Thor had his hands in his pockets, and seemed to be enjoying the sun as much as she was. Out in the bright light, he was even stranger than his hair and jewelry suggested, wearing leather and some sort of strange metal plates on his chest, "Nadine said she thinks you need to talk to me. I'm inclined to agree."

Frowning, Stevie stuck her hands in his own pockets, standing with her legs apart and hips sunk into her stance. It was a comfortable, easy position, and it made moving in a hurry a lot easier than a more ladylike position. "I don't _need_ to talk to anyone. Nadine's a nice lady. She just wants to help."

"And you don't think you need it."

"Mister, I know I don't need it."

He hummed and nodded, the sound almost getting lost in the traffic that passed by. A breeze picked up, lifting a few locks of his hair. Jealousy sank through Stevie's stomach like a brick before she shoved it away.

_Later_. She'd deal with it later.

Thor stared off into the sky, rocking absently on his feet. "Yes, I can see that you don't think you need help. But I think you do, and I think you know that you do, if you would only open your mind to it."

Riddles, just what she didn't want. "Not a chance."

"Not even to understand what's happening to you?"

She twisted on her heels, knees flexing in preparation, but Thor didn't even turn to look at her. "What did you say?"

"I know when you come from, Stephanie Anne Rogers. _Captain._" The bastard's—and he _was_ a bastard, she didn't doubt it—voice was still smooth and gentle, but she heard the stronger, commanding tones under it. "I know that you want to go back, to your war and your lover, and that you worry that you may not be able to."

"How do you know that?" She forced herself to keep her breathing even, though her heart was in her throat. Lightly, she took a step back, watching him for any slight indication that he might attack. "Nadine sure didn't tell you any of that." No one in New York could have known any of it.

"No, she didn't. You did." He tipped his head and tapped his temple, the damned, too-long hair catching another breeze. It was _mocking_ her. "I'm more than I seem. We have that in common."

Whatever that meant in real terms, Stevie could translate it well enough. She took another step, turning her back to the wall. "Stay out of my head!"

Bastard didn't even bother pretending to agree. "I'm not here to impose myself, Stephanie. I'm here because when Nadine called, I could sense something historic happening."

Stevie snorted. "Historic. You could say that." Cars rolled by on the street. Some kids were walking down the road, chattering loudly and laughing. It seemed unreal that normal life would be going on while she had a talk with someone who could read her mind. "What do you want from me?"

"I only want to help."

"Help _what_?" Her voice started to roughen, but that was fine—she'd learned to use her voice. "I'm going back where I belong, somehow, and that's that. How do you think you can help with that?"

"By telling you that you can't." His eyes were bright blue, piercing, and she had to force herself not to look away. "You know you can't. It's time to acknowledge the truth to yourself, or you'll never move forward."

In spite of all her training about control, Stevie's hands clenched into fists. She shoved them into her pockets to hide it. "I don't have any forward to move to. This isn't my world—what's here for me?" Somehow, her voice stayed rock steady. "My family won't want me. My friends are probably all dead. My government made like I never happened, because I got born with a God damned pink blanket instead of a blue. So you tell me what I've got left!"

That's when he turned and grinned, full of teeth and good humor.

"That," he said, "is what I want to help you with."  


***

  
Hamburgers, Stevie was pleased to find, hadn't much changed either. The prices sure had, but Thor hadn't seemed to think there was anything strange in paying ten dollars for a burger, fries, salad and a coke, and the diner he took her to wasn't swanky, so she put it down as inflation. Since he was buying her a meal, it was probably rude to tell him it cost too much, and she'd been rude enough to everyone.

Nadine had hugged her goodbye when she went back to explain that Thor was buying her lunch. Stevie hadn't been able to do more than stand in shock while the older woman had made her promise to take care of herself. A half an hour later, she still felt jumpy from the sudden embrace. Bucky'd never been a really cuddly type, and it had been almost a year since she'd seen Gail stateside. And there'd really been no one else, except maybe Gail's dad, and he'd liked to pull her braid more than hug.

Thinking about it just made it worse, so she concentrated on slathering her fries with ketchup. They were good, thick fries, with the skins still on, cooked just enough to turn them gold and crispy. Thor had recommended, and bought, some sort of chicken thing with rice and a weird pale green sauce that she could smell across the table, but Stevie knew what she liked, and she'd been on C-rations for too damn long. She'd almost forgotten what real food tasted like.

He first taste of real, honest to goodness grilled meat sat on her tongue like a miracle. Stevie closed her eyes in bliss, chewing slowly. Soldiers had made themselves sick bolting down too much too fast. She didn't have any plans to be that dumb. Besides, it made it last, and she knew she couldn't count on strangers' good graces for long.

Thor stirred his rice and watched her with an amused smile. "Is it to your liking?"

She nodded, swallowing. "You could run it over with a truck and it'd be to my liking," she promised. "Thank you for this again. You didn't have to." The burger sat on her plate, but she forced herself to take a bite of salad, and to chew that slowly too. It was big enough to be a whole meal on its own for a regular person, but since the serum, Stevie had been able to pack away food.

"I wanted to." Thor helped himself to some rice. For a moment, they were both silence at they concentrated on eating.

Diner patrons came and went, with a few of them glancing towards the back corner booth curiously. A man in a police uniform even paused to stare through the window, talking into one of the little ear-things that she'd seen in the hospital. Stevie supposed they made an interesting couple; Thor was the first man she'd ever met who was taller than her. It was a nice place, done in pale wood with some sort of fake marble flooring. Their waitress had been nice too, in her dark jeans and white blouse.

The sheer normalcy of it sank through her skin. Stevie leaned back into her booth seat, dragging a fry through the catsup. If she closed her eyes for a moment, she could think she was back in 1940. But the registers sounded wrong, and every now and then some strange music would sound in someone's pocket or purse.

For all its oddities, though, it helped. The future wasn't nearly as strange as books had made her think. Gail would have liked it.

The possibility that, somewhere in the world, she _did_ like it was too slim to give her anything but a sinking feeling. What were the chances of someone living to see ninety?

"Stephanie?"

"Hm?" She blinked, then realized that she'd been holding a fry to her lips for long enough that it had gone cold. "Just thinking. The future's not what it's supposed to be. It's so..." Groping for a word, she flicked her fingers at the diner. "It's so ordinary. Where's the jetpacks? And the ray guns?"

Thor tapped the edge of his plate with his fork. Scowl lines appeared in his brow. "Held by the government, for the most part, and not even safe in those hands. And not only that. Bombs capable of leveling nations. Instruments whose only use is torture."

Ingrained patriotic fervor had Stevie opening her mouth to argue. "The United States government is the best in the world, Mister. If anyone can be trusted with the blasted ray guns, it's them." She put her hands on the table, already half out of her seat. "Go ahead, say it's not trustworthy, and you can say it again while you pick up your teeth."

"They lied about you."

Stevie stared at him. Vinyl squeaked as she slowly sank back into the booth. "That was different."

"How so?" Thor asked mildly. "A government that will lie to her people about one of her most decorated heroes will lie about anything."

She shook her head savagely and used a fry to point across the table. "I may be seventy years too late, but I refuse to believe that there aren't good men up there on Capitol Hill."

"Good, yes." Thor nodded amiably. "And bad. And afraid, power-hungry, saints and sinners. But the power rests with the wicked, and it threatens to bring the world to chaos." He sounded so calm and reasonable that it made her grit her teeth. "You have not heard of the torture in foreign harbors, or of the tests done on unwitting soldiers at Viet Nam, or the riots at Stonewall. Of the many harmful laws passed out of fear and ignorance, the so-called Patriot Act, or Don't Ask Don't Tell. This is not the government you agreed to serve."

Irrationally, Stevie only grew angrier. She'd sacrificed her whole life in the name of her country, and she'd be damned if some long-haired foreign freak was going to criticize it. Deep down, she knew he had a point—her whole military career had been filled with right bastards who only thought of soldiers as numbers, but that didn't give some un-American ass the right to say anything. "I took an oath, and that stands no matter who's in office. If you want to help me like you said, you're going about it the wrong way."

"I apologize." Big, calloused hands spread out on the table in a universal sign of _unarmed_. "What do you want? How can I help you?"

"I want to go back to 1945."

"Impossible."

"How do you know? You don't even—" She slammed down on her rage before it could get the better of her, counting to ten slowly. When that didn't work, she took it out on her burger. Even crunching through the lettuce didn't make her feel better.

While she was chewing, Thor sighed. "I do not know how you came to be here, that's true. But I know that it was neither esoteric nor technological. I would have felt such a disturbance on this plane, or my father would have."

Stevie seized the tangent like a lifeline. "Your father?"

"Odin."

Well, that said everything she needed to know. He was crazy. At least he was crazy and buying her lunch. "Must be nice to have a god on your side."

"It is occasionally useful," he agreed. "So, other than to return to your own time, what do you want?"

Stevie looked down at the table top. It was like the floor, gently marbled with wonderful realism. If she didn't know what real marble felt like, she never would have known. "Ask the sixty-four thousand dollar question, why don't you?"

Pretty soon, she was going to get sick of seeing people pity her. "I didn't mean for it to be a hardship."

"I know. It's a good question though." What _did_ she want? If she couldn't back home, what was left? No ID, no home, no income. She wasn't going to live on the shoulders of strangers, she had too much pride for that. If she'd been able to work back when her leg was busted up, she could find work as she was. And she could always go back to the military and let them do what they wanted. The worst they could do would be to turn her into a lab rat, and she'd already done that once.

But before that, there were a few loose ends to tie up. Then she could decide. "Gail and Bucky." She looked up to meet Thor's eyes. "My gi—my friends. I need to know what happened to them. If—how they died, if they had kids. That sort of thing."

"They may take some time to find," Thor started to say, but Stevie shook her head.

"You people don't have telephone directories in the future? If Bucky and Gail are alive, they'll be in New York." They'd loved New York. Half of their plans had been to find a nice little cottage in the suburbs. It would have taken a rain of fire to get either of them to move. "Trust me. And if they're not..."

If they weren't, then there was no reason not to march right back to Fort Hamilton and tell that General Fury fellow to do his worst.

"A reasonable enough request." Thor set aside his plate and stood. "I'll go make a phone call or two, to see if they can be found on the internet." When Stevie just stared at him blankly, he grinned and rubbed the back of his head. "It's complicated, and I'm not very good with it. Perhaps someone can explain it to us both."

Learning new things about the modern world seemed like a good idea. She'd have to start sometime. "Thanks."

While Thor wandered back towards the bank of phones near the bathrooms, Stevie focused on cleaning her plate. Crowds were getting thicker out the window, with people coming and going so fast that sometimes she couldn't pick out any one person for more than a second. People watching was familiar, and comforting in its way. Even in seventy years, New York hadn't changed _that_ much. Sure, the hemlines were too high and the cars looked like they were made of glass, but it would always be home.

A scream cut through the glass like butter.

"My baby! He took my baby!"

Stevie hopped over the table and was running out the glass doors to the diner before the other patrons even started to stand. Outside, people were shoving each other around, trying to see what was going on. No one seemed to have made any move to help. In the middle of the sidewalk, a tiny woman with Asian features had collapsed to her knees. Beside her, a pink stroller sat, ominously empty.

"Ma'am, which way—"

The stricken mother pointed down the street. Tears poured down her cheeks, smearing her makeup. Short black hair clung to her damp skin. "That man in the red jacket! He has my baby!"

Turning her head, Stevie caught sight of a flash of candy apple red in the distance. She pushed aside a man in a black suit and bolted after the baby-snatcher. Behind her, she thought she heard Thor shout her name, but she didn't even think to pause. The early afternoon throng made running in a straight line almost impossible on the sidewalk. She elbowed and shoved, stretching her legs, but in less than a block it became obvious that something needed to change. The faint glimpses of red were getting harder to see.

Growling in frustration, she darted out into traffic, ignoring the blinking don't walk sign. A bright yellow taxi squealed to a stop inches away from her. The next car wasn't lucky enough to stop in time. She leaped upward, coming down on the hood with a crunch of dull blue metal and using it as a springboard to the overhanging roof.

From above, she could easily spot the culprit two blocks ahead with something tiny and white bundled in his arms. Without the mass of civilians to get in her way, she was able to stretch out her legs and move, leaping gaps in the overhangs as needed. It felt good to use her muscles, to stretch and breathe and feel her heart pound, even though they ached with disuse.

People screamed as she passed, some of them shouting for her attention. At least one authoritative voice yelled for her to come down. Stevie ignored it all. In only a couple of minutes, she managed to close the distance between them. The jacket, which she'd thought was a bomber, was actually a trench.

As soon as she drew abreast of the villain, she leapt down to the sidewalk in front of him. Civilians scattered on all sides. He skidded to a stop, clutching the little bundle to his chest. He was surprisingly scrawny, with a mop of short brown hair.

Stevie stood carefully in the middle of the sidewalk. "Hand over the baby."

The bastard took one look at her and ran, darting down a service alley. Cursing loudly, Stevie shoved a teenage gawker out of her way and chased. Her sneakers crunched over spilled trash. The alley was long, but not so long that she didn't see that it dead ended ahead.

Apparently, the baby thief hadn't realized it in time. He ran right up to the brick wall and put his back to it, like the cornered rat he was. Stevie slowed to a stop and kept a careful distance, but stayed where she could catch him if he tried to dodge past her. The baby was worryingly still. She would have expected even the calmest little one to be screaming after a run like that. Even its little hands were limp, not curling or trying to hold anything. Every now and then, it moved, but always slowly. What if he'd hurt it?

"Put down the baby," she said, holding her hands up. The walls were covered in graffiti, but they weren't slimy and they were made of solid brownstone. There were at least three large objects she could use for weapons if she needed to. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want the child."

The man nodded, pressing back against the wall and pulled the tiny bundle away from his chest. "Okay— okay, you win. You can have it." Before she could stop him, he threw the little one in the air.

Stevie reacted instantly, diving for one of the big dumpsters and using it as a step-off to leave. She caught it as well as she could, cradling it against her chest and curling around it. Landing like that threw her to her knees. Another blow struck her from behind, the sharp pinch of a hypodermic needle sliding into her side.

She slammed an elbow backwards, and was rewarded with a _crunch_ as a nose broke. Another elbow missed the ribs she was aiming for, but caught her attacker a good one in the gut. While he was winded, she staggered to her feet. Whatever had been in the needle either hadn't been enough, or hadn't been strong enough. Her head swam, but it wasn't any worse than she'd gotten with a bad cold as a kid. Drugs hadn't done her any good since '41.

"You evil God damned son of a—"

A slight, gentle whir of noise came from the bundle against her chest. Stevie glanced down. Two bright blue painted eyes stared up at her from the folds of the baby blanket.

A doll.

She looked up, eyes narrowed.

The guy had pulled out one of the ear pieces she'd been seeing people use like a miniature radio. "She's not going down!" he shouted, backing up against the wall again. This time, there was real fear in his posture, and his voice shook. Blood poured down his face from the broken nose, staining his shirt. "Tell Fury that she's— What do you mean, stronger? That was for horses! I said— damn it, Janet!"

Stevie dropped the doll and kicked it out of the way, taking a step forward. "I hope you've got a good doctor, buddy, because you're going to need him."

"Shit!" He crowded even farther back against the wall. His trench coat began to stretch, and then rip apart at the seams. A foot at a time, he got bigger, and bigger, until he was nearly five times her height and naked as a jaybird.

People could grow into monsters. Just when she'd been starting to think the future was normal.

"Give up and come with me," he said, voice echoing off the building walls. He'd gotten so big that it was like listening to a tank, if a tank could speak. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Don't want to hurt me?" Stevie snorted, cracking her knuckles. This was going to be _fun_. "That's your last mistake of the day, pal."

An over-sized hand came down from above, trying to pin her. Stevie stepped out of the way easily, leaping onto the brownstone. It was rough enough to have traction, which allowed her to push off and leap higher, aiming for the other alley wall before gravity could take hold. The giant man kept trying to grab her, but his size was his own enemy. Every move was telegraphed like a sign post, and he couldn't even begin to move quick enough to catch her.

At the start of her last leap, she changed angles. One of her feet landed on his chin. The other leg swiveled upward to land a solid kick on his broken nose. He screamed and tried to swat her, but she'd already slid down, using his shoulders as a landing platform. The only thing he managed to hit was himself.

Her next blow was a punch, straight to his prominent adam's apple. Somehow, his trachea didn't break, but he fell to his knees anyway, clutching his throat. Before she could lose her footing, she latched onto his ear and swung, using his downward momentum to swing his head and smash it into the side of the building. The crack jarred her off her perch. As she slid down, her feet dug into the skin, slowing her fall and leaving bright red burn tracks. Stomach hair slowed her too, until she came to a stop just at the giant's crotch, dangling by handfuls of pubic hair.

Using her God given advantage as a woman, Stevie dropped, grabbing a handful of loose skin from his un-erect penis. Swinging herself underneath, she slammed both feet right into his nutsack with her full body-weight and pushed off, arching backwards into a smooth somersault.

He howled, finally falling completely back as she completed a three-point landing. The shrinking process only took seconds. When it was over, a normal sized, entirely naked man laid curled into a fetal ball in the middle of the alley.

Warily, Stevie picked up a discarded beer bottle and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder without even provoking a flinch. She kicked the baby doll towards him too, getting a little pleasure when it smacked him in the broken nose.

A collection of on-lookers had gathered around the mouth of the alley. A few of them cheered as she exited. Stevie gave them a non-committal smile and pushed her way through. There still wasn't a sign of any police. That bothered her—there should have been cops all over.

"Miss!" An older lady grabbed her elbow, peering up at her worriedly through a pair of glasses on a string. "Miss, are you okay? Giant-Man didn't hurt you?"

"I'm fine, ma'am," she promised, freeing her arm with a pat. "You know how men are. They always think size matters."  


***

  
"God damn it, Stark, why weren't you there?"

Bruce sighed kept his head down as Stark and Fury marched through his lab, breathing and dropping hair all over. He was used to people randomly coming in, and no amount of explanation about sterile environments would stop Fury. He didn't know or care how a single speck of dust could ruin hours of work. Stark knew and cared, he just thought he knew better than Bruce. Technology and biology, to him, were just matters of perspective. Gently, Bruce lifted a microscopic tissue sample onto a slide, determined to at least pretend that he wasn't there.

"So sorry to disappoint. I had other plans," Stark said, bending over to look at a sheet of Bruce's notes. "You really shouldn't get so worked up about these things. It's bad for your blood pressure."

"We needed you on aerial support!" Fury was in a rage. He slapped his open palm down on a table with a loud _crack_, thankfully only upsetting empty instruments. Bruce winced anyway—some of those were delicately calibrated, and Fury had just ensured that was past tense. "If you'd been there, we could have captured her!"

Even though the sample was long since spread, Bruce kept fiddling with it. Hopefully, the argument would end and he'd be able to get back to _real_ work.

"Or she would have taken both Pym and I out in very public, very humiliating fashion," Stark countered. His fingers slid over the edge of a centrifuge. Privately, Bruce prayed that he wasn't getting any urges to rebuild it. The last one still made strange beeping noises. "And damaged the most expensive suit in the world in the process. While the crowd cheered, no less. I think we're better off if I sit this one out altogether. Don't you agree?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Fury's face tighten into a scowl. "You pull this sort of shit again and I'll—"

"And you'll... what? Drop me from the team?" Stark patted the equipment like a dog and leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. "You know, I was curious about why you're so determined to keep this hush-hush when a quick broadcast would solve the problem, so I did a little reading up. News papers, records, old files. You wouldn't believe what I learned." Stark was too serious, too intense. Bruce almost felt the heat of his anger from across the room. "I know what you've been doing—read about your little trip up to Canada.

"I'm not going to help you turn that woman into a lab specimen, so go ahead. Drop me from the team. I'm just in this for the adulation."

Silence. With a sweep of his arm, Fury knocked over an empty beaker. Glass shattered against the floor, tinkling as the shards tumbled over the smooth tile. "You don't know a fucking _thing_, Stark," Fury growled. The sealed door whooshed open anti-climatically as he stormed out.

The broken pieces of the beaker Fury had ruined glittered up at him from the floor. With a sigh, Bruce turned to get the whisk broom.

"Don't know a thing," Stark sighed. His head tilted as Bruce swept up the shards. There were people to do it for him, but he didn't see the point in waiting for someone else to get around to it. "Sorry to barge in on you, Bruce. I wanted to see if you had any progress on Cap."

"Cap?" Bruce clutched the whisk broom and dustpan. Most of the beaker was still in pieces too big and heavy to sweep easily, so he started collecting those first. "What's that?"

"The ice woman. I know you got some of her samples" Stark gestured around the lab, frustration evident in the jerky movement of his hand. "Have you examined them? What do you think?"

"Oh, _Cap_! You mean Captain America," Bruce nodded, glancing up. "I've got some good leads. Now that we know the key is in the gender differences— well, there's really not that much difference between male and female biology. It's just a matter of finding what negatively affected the other subjects and adjusting the procedure."

"So you can make more of her?"

"Possibly. General Fury seemed insistent that the process function on both genders equally." And no testing, of course, but Bruce would worry about that when he had something to test. "With a focus on making it compatible with men, obviously."

Stark snorted. "That's because Nick has no imagination."

"Female soldiers are still less prevalent on the front lines of battle than male," Bruce reminded his, rolling his eyes. Tony Stark: feminist and humanitarian. He never would have imagined. "And we know a female super soldier can be created. Now that we know, making a male version is the challenge."

For some reason, that seemed to agitate Stark more. He ran his hand through his hair and shifted his weight uncertainly. Bruce wasn't good at reading people, and Tony Stark was good at being unreadable, but under oath he would have sworn that Stark was angry.

"Okay— fine, then." Stark pushed away from the table he was leaning against, headed for the door. "Keep me up on your progress. _Ciao_."

Bruce shook his head and reached for other chunk of beaker. "Bye— _ow_!" Pain bit into his thumb as the glass slipped. Blood welled up from a shallow cut across the pad of his thumb. He cursed and reached for a napkin in his pocket. He couldn't let his blood mix with or contaminate any of the samples.

Inspiration hit like a sledge hammer.

Blood.

The future unfurled before his eyes.  


***

  
_Everything was a pristine, perfect white, like being trapped in a blizzard. Walls stretched up so high it seemed like a cathedral, and one of them was topped by a pane of glass windows that sometimes had observers behind them. The only furniture in the examination room was a simple metal table. No chairs, nothing to take comfort in. Even the doctors wore all white, sterile and identical. The masks they wore made it impossible to tell them apart for no reason Stevie could spot. It wasn't as if she were contagious._

She had never gotten used to it. Everyone else rotated out constantly. In the six months she'd been in the medical center, the only people she'd learned to identify had been a few generals and other test subjects, but she hadn't seen any of them in days.

Stevie wasn't sure what to think about that.

"Well, Miss Stephanie, how's the leg?" One of the doctors rubbed her knee, flexing it. It moved easily, like an oiled hinge. Her knee-length olive-drab skirt had to be pulled up so he could see the joint, which was uncomfortable, but a nurse lurked in the back to make sure nothing went on. She wished Gail was there, but Gail was back in New York. "Is there any pain? Stiffness?"

"Right as rain, doc," Stevie assured him, staring down at her leg. She'd put on a lot of muscle tone in the six months since she'd been at the center. It was like looking down at someone else's legs, watching muscle and skin slide together so easily. Being able to use it again was a miracle she swore she'd never forget. "Better than ever. Did they tell you I touched my toes yesterday? I couldn't do that before."

There were a lot of things she couldn't have done before—climb twenty foot walls, run for what felt like days, lift a man clear over her head. For all that, it was the little things that she felt most, like touching her toes, or just walking without help.

The doc smiled at her. Even with his face hidden behind the mask, he reminded her of a grandfather—it was something about the wrinkles around his eyes. "Very good. You're progressing nicely." He flexed her knee again, then worked with the other one to compare.

"How do feel in general?" the questions continued while he took her pulse. "Nausea, fatigue, headaches?" Obediently she answered _no_ to every question, on and on, as if she'd forget to mention something like throwing up blood. As they went on, the crinkles at the corners of the doctor's eyes deepened, as if he were smiling.

"Well, Miss Rogers, it looks like you're the perfect bill of health. Congratulations."

"So it worked?" Stevie smoothed down her skirt again, since he was done with her legs. Thinking that it was over—the experiment was a success, she could go home—seemed like cheating. She'd signed up to serve her country. Maybe she had, but it didn't feel like it. "I guess the guys are going to the front?" That was probably why she hadn't seen them in the mess. They'd been shipped off. She was just a loose end.

The doc looked away. His pen tapped nervously against his notepad. "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

Back against the wall, the nurse on duty seemed to take pity on the tongue-tied doctor. "You were the only one to make it," she explained. The only identifiable part of her was her hair, which was mousy brown and pulled back into a neat little bun. It was the first time one of the nurses had spoken to her. "The last one died yesterday. There was an incident—"

Around the doc's neck, the stethoscope slipped and almost fell as he turned to stare at the nurse. "Should we tell her?"

"Someone needs to." The woman lifted her chin defiantly. "She needs to know."

Stevie stared at her, gripping the edge of the table. Metal bend under her fingers with an ugly groan. She stared down at the perfect finger imprints, heart pounding, then back up at the medics. "The only one? They've died?"

"The serum seems to have worked with your constitution while it conflicted with theirs," the doctor answered slowly. "We're not certain why. Of course, more testing is needed, but the war is started after all, and I doubt you'll have time."

"But— you can make more, right? If it worked on me..."

"Only on you, Miss Stephanie. Just you." Glancing back at the nurse, the nameless doctor seemed to shrug. His eyes looked tired, and now that she was looking, she noticed the redness in them. "And there was an incident. A spy killed the man behind the project. You're one of a kind, now."

Metal started to bend again. Stevie loosened her grip guiltily before she could damage the table any more. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it means." The doctor pulled down his mask and held out a hand. She'd been right. He had a kind face, with a lot of laughter lines. Just then, it didn't look like he'd laugh again for a long time. "Your business with me is done, Miss Stephanie. I wish you the best luck in the world."

Gingerly, Stevie shook his hand. Under the gloves he wore they were soft—real doctor's hands, the kind that were made to be gentle. A glow of gratitude touched her heart. He could have been like the other doctors, the ones the men had, who barked orders and never warned before jabbing in with a needle, and who strapped them down before the treatments.

Maybe he wasn't as important as the others, or he wouldn't have been given the only girl to treat, but he'd gotten her through. "Thank you, doc. It's been a real pleasure. Can I at least get your name?"

"Anonymous, Miss Stephanie. We're all anonymous here." He nodded to her and picked up his bag. The nurse held the door open for him. "The general will be here to talk to you in a few minutes. Take care, Miss."

And then she was alone. Lights flickered on and off in the window bank above, three times in five minutes before going dark and staying that way. Stevie stared down at her toes, stretching out her legs and touching them now and then just because she could and it helped keep her mind off the other two test subjects.

It didn't make sense why she made it and they didn't. They'd been volunteers from the Army. Big, strong guys who could have broken her over their knee if they'd wanted. She'd been sure they'd take to it.

Why hadn't they?

She'd been sitting alone for nearly a half an hour when the door opened again. A tall, graying man with a general's stars on his chest strode in. He walked for all the world like some ancient monarch looking out over his lands. Stevie instinctively straightened, and only knowing how much a fool she'd look kept her from attempting an untrained salute.

"Miss Stephanie Rogers?" he asked quietly. His voice was mellow and rolling like a river, but stern enough that she made an effort to sit up straighter. It was an odd contrast to his face, which could most kindly be called hawkish. "I'm General Phillips."

"Sir." Her clubbed braid bobbed against the back of her neck when she nodded. "The doc said you needed to talk to me?"

He hooked his hands behind his back. "Miss Rogers, I have a proposal for you. But first I need to know something." Her head dipped automatically. "What would you say if I told you that your nation needs you?"

All her life, she'd wanted to serve her country. When she'd thought she'd be just a body it could use, that had been enough.

It wasn't.

Stevie met his eyes, setting her jaw determinedly. "I'd say... I'd say sign me up, sir."

Another person sitting on the park bench jolted Stevie out of her thoughts. She uncurled a bit from the ball she'd wrapped herself in, looking up tiredly. Beside her, Thor had kept a decent distance between them, placing a huge battle hammer lengthwise on the seat, like the ruler her mother had used between her and Bucky, before everything had gone to pieces. The setting sun turned Thor's hair even more golden, and cast strong shadows across his jaw and muscles. He almost did look like a god out of a book of myths.

Somehow, she wasn't surprised that he'd found her.

"I went back to the diner," she explained quietly, "but you'd paid the tab and left."

"Looking for you," he nodded. A couple strolled past, walking along one of the park paths hand in hand. Thor's eyes followed them placidly, unbothered by the stares his weapon received. "Did the fight go well?"

Satisfaction at the still-vivid memory of testicles crushing softly under her feet brought a smile to Stevie's lips. "I got out well enough, but it was a trap. Someone was setting me up. Tried to drug me."

"No doubt agents of the government." When she lifted a skeptical eyebrow, he raised both of his in return. "Who else knows of you?"

"You do."

"I do."

Stevie slumped back against the bench, pulling her knees in against her chest. Prospect Park wasn't Central Park, but it wasn't bad, and the sun still felt good. Watching life go on around her was comforting, helped ground her thoughts away from all the things she couldn't have any more. "So maybe it was someone like you. Or the government."

"You don't perhaps think it was I?" His voice lifted in amusement. "As you said, I know your secret."

"If you wanted to catch me, you would have tried it by now." The guns in her pockets were heavy as she shifted to get more comfortable. She'd feel better once she knew how to use them properly. There was no point in having a weapon she couldn't fire. "There were a dozen times you could have tried. So unless you're playing some sort of game, you're safe."

"It's good to have your trust."

"You don't. I just said that you don't want to kidnap me. That doesn't mean I trust you."

He nodded agreeably. "Not even if I tell you that I have found your friends?"

Stevie turned to stare at him suspiciously, but Thor's expression was serene. It never was anything else, really, but he had enough tell-tale twitches that she thought she could tell if he were lying. So far, he hadn't. "What did you find out?"

"James and Gail Barnes have a home in Brooklyn, not very far from here. We can go there now, if you like."

Still no sign of a lie, but Stevie's gut tightened into an iron knot anyway. She needed to see Gail and Bucky, more than she needed to keep free, maybe more than she needed to keep breathing.

Gail _Barnes_—they'd married without her. Were there children, with Gail's hair and smile? Grandchildren? Had some other man and woman joined them, taking Stevie's place in their plans? Did Gail ever love anyone else?

She swallowed to ease the ache in her chest before it could rise up into her throat. "Let's go."  


***

  
The house Thor took her to was a small one, with a just-blooming flower garden and a porch. It was a picture book house—it even had rocking chairs, and brightly colored toys scattered in the walkway. Stevie stared at it from the sidewalk, hands behind her back. Children played on the sidewalks, doing something esoteric that involved bouncing a soft ball and a lot of laughter. Every time one of them burst out into giggles, she tensed even more. A single loud noise would have sent her running.

They should have called ahead, or not gone at all. What if she wasn't wanted? Or the listing was old, and they were gone? _I'm sorry, miss, Grandmother passed away last year..._

She didn't think she could take it, if they were dead.

Thor didn't seem to mind her hesitation, or if he did, he just didn't say anything. Stevie appreciated his patience, even though it irritated her that he needed to be patient at all. She'd thrown herself out of airplanes without a pause for second thoughts, but knocking on a door was about to make a coward out of her.

"Excuse me?" A girl about fourteen years old called from just outside the group of kids. Strawberry blonde curls stuck up from a messy pair of ponytails, making her look a little like she'd stuck her finger in a socket. "You've been standing there a while. Are you two looking for someone?"

Stevie hesitated, but Thor answered for them. "Yes, actually, young lady. Do James and Gail Barnes live here?"

"Oh, yeah!" the girl beamed. "That's my grandparents. I'll go get 'em." She took off at a job for the front door, yelling at the top of her lungs for _Grampa_.

So they _did_ have children. Stevie wasn't sure what to think about that, other than _they should be mine_. The space behind her eyes ached with an on-coming headache. It had been years since she'd gotten one of those for no good reason. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose, relaxing by dint of will alone.

It must have been from the fight with the giant.

"Stephanie?" Thor's forehead furrowed with worry. "Are you—"

"I'm fine." The front door was opening, and she found herself wanting to run again. It didn't matter where, as long as she didn't have to face the man coming out onto the porch.

"I'm James," he called, voice gravelly, but still strong. There was no cane in sight, but from the slow way he walked, it was clear he probably needed one. The ginger-haired girl hovered just off to the side, visibly ready to catch him if he needed it. "Can I help you with...?" He paused on the steps, blinking and shaking his head.

Bucky didn't look anything like she'd expected. Even with all the evidence, she'd never thought about what she'd see instead of a head full of dark hair and maybe one of those damned cigarettes. Her knees started to feel unsteady and she locked them, determined to at least manage to keep her feet.

"Hi, Bucky." In spite of her best attempts, Stevie's voice cracked. "I hear you've got grandkids, lucky dog. I told you kids would make you grow up one day."

"Good God—" He staggered down the last few steps towards her. "Gail! Gail, get out here!" he shouted, hoarse voice sounding painful with the raise in volume. "Gail!"

They met in the middle of the walkway. Stevie wrapped her arms around her old friend's shoulders and hugged him to her. Bucky had always been shorter than she was, but he felt tiny, fragile. It was as if she could break him in two if she weren't careful enough. He'd never felt so frail back in the war.

"James?" another voice asked from back up on the porch. "Who's here? Do I need—" Stevie looked up in time to see a dishrag tumble to the ground.

Gail was a picture—still rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, with her thick white hair pulled back into a braid, just as gorgeous as ever. She clutched the handrail on the steps with one hand, her other hand up against her lips. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn't make any move to wipe them away.

Stevie tried to find something to say, but her whole chest had locked up on her. Words choked up in her throat, locked in her lungs and refusing to do anything at all. She couldn't breathe. When Bucky pulled away from her, she staggered before regaining her own balance.

The poor kid stood in the middle of the porch, looking back and forth between them all in complete confusion. "Grandma? What's going on?"

"I—" Gail finally straightened from the rail. She stepped down the stairs regally, though Stevie could easily see her hands shaking. "Susanne, go set the table with an extra place." Her eyes flickered to Thor back on the sidewalk. "No, make it two. And make it the good plates and silver. Then run home and tell your mother that Grandpa and I have company tonight, and I'll talk to her over coffee."

Susanne stared at Stevie like she'd done something heinous, but skittered inside when Gail shooed her. Stevie tried not to stare as Gail came towards her, but just thinking was hard enough. Controlling where her eyes went wasn't about to happen. Bucky still had a hand on her elbow. It was the only thing keeping her upright.

"Stevie?" Gail paused a few feet away. Her dress was a neat, pretty flower print. The blue roses on it brought out the blue in her eyes, but that only made the red rims around them brighter too. "Is that really you?"

Forcing herself to take a shaky breath, she nodded and tried to smile. It didn't worse so well. "I promised, didn't I?" She hated sound of her voice. It was too soft, too unsteady. She was supposed to be _happy_, damn it. "I said I'd come back."

"Just took a little while, huh?" Bucky asked, squeezing her arm with a thin hand. His voice wobbled as much as hers. That made her feel better about losing control. "What happened, girl? I saw you go down."

She shook her head. The headache was starting to pound up to full force, burning behind her eyes and thickening her throat. "I don't know," she admitted. "I thought I was dead too. I just... woke up." What Fury had said about an iceberg prodded to the front of her mind, but she wasn't sure enough about that to speculate. "It's a long story, but I need someplace to stay."

Imposing on them wasn't fair, but she didn't trust Thor, and she didn't have anyplace else. Tomorrow, maybe she'd go back to the base, or the day after. But she needed to get her head straight first. She'd operated on her gut instinct all day, and that would only take her so far.

"You've got it." Bucky glanced back and forth between her and Gail with a knowing look. "Why don't I show your friend around, and you ladies can chat while dinner finishes up?"

"That's not necessary," Thor insisted, bringing up his hands with the palms flat out. "I don't wish to intrude."

"Nonsense." Bucky let go of Stevie entirely and hooked his arm around Thor's. He started tugging the big man around the side of the house, apparently oblivious to Thor's slightly panicked expression and subtle attempts to free himself. "You brought our girl home; you can at least stay for supper. I'll just show you my garden around back. The tomatoes are coming up a treat."

When the men had gotten out of eyesight, Stevie locked her hands together in front of her, inexplicably panicked at being alone with Gail. Gail, who'd obviously moved on and had a full life after Stevie'd left her. Who'd had the children and grandchildren and home they'd always talked about sharing. It was like being an intruder in her own dream. She was shaking so bad, she felt like she was coming apart at the seams.

"I know I'm not pretty as I used to me, but don't I even get a hug?" Gail asked softly.

Stevie started to answer, but the words were caught up in a half-vocalized moan. She staggered forward wrapped her arms around Gail's shoulders. Anything she might have said got lost in another inarticulate noise as she fought away the burning in her eyes.

A shudder wracked down Gail's frame. "We thought you were dead," she whispered, her voice shaking. "They all said you'd died— James _saw_ you die—"

Stevie's knees cracked painfully against the pavement as they gave way under her. She had just enough sense to not drag Gail down with her, but it left her with her face pressed into Gail's ribs. She clutched her around the waist, tears making a dark spot on Gail's dress.

"I'm sorry—" she gasped, throat clenching around the words as if she could swallow them back down. "Oh God, Gail, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't—"

Everything she'd lost and gone through pounded up through her. Big things, the ones that mattered, country and family and all the soldiers she'd led to their deaths were shoved aside by petty ones—her hair, her name, being able to look in the mirror and not see a stranger—that were so small she was ashamed to even miss them. It wasn't right, to look at a battle plan over December and think _Gail and I should be making preserves right now_. It wasn't important, it wasn't fair to the men who relied on her. But she couldn't stop thinking about it, picking over details, worrying about everything she couldn't have anymore and shouldn't even waste time wanting. Trying to shove it all back down and get a grip on herself just brought it all up in an even harder sob. She was making a fool of herself right in public and she couldn't make herself stop.

Gail held on to her, rocking slightly as if she were soothing a baby. She didn't even try to shush her, or pull her in where neighbors couldn't see. "It's okay, honey." Her fingers ran through Stevie's hair. "You let it all out. Come on, just let it go."

By the time the tears had finally slowed, Stevie's whole body ached like one big bruise. Her headache had cleared away, but her throat was so tight every hiccup and gulp for air hurt, her nose was stuffed and her face burned. She knew she looked terrible—she'd never been able to cry gracefully. The whole time, Gail hadn't let go of her for a second. Stevie rested her forehead against Gail's stomach and tried to get the trembling to stop.

"Better now?" Gail asked, patting at her hair.

It took a few tried before Stevie could speak without sounding like a mile of rough road. "Not really," she admitted, sniffling to try and clear up her head. "I don't know what happened to me just then. Sorry."

"You've had a long day, I expect." Gail finally peeled away from her. Tears had left tracks in her cheeks too, but she didn't look half as bad as Stevie.

"A long few years." Stevie forced herself to her feet, wincing as the blood started circulating back into her feet. She rubbed her face, feeling like an idiot. "I'm sorry. You didn't need that."

"You did." Gail's arm wrapped around Stevie's to guide her up to the house, and it was so familiar that she started to choke again. "Come on. Let's get you washed up and you can tell me what brought it on."

Inside of the place was as perfect as the outside. Pictures lined the wall going up the stairs. There were more on the mantle and other walls, evidence that life had definitely moved on without her. Most of them were in bright color, but a few were yellow with age. Stevie's eyes slid away from the older ones before her chest could tighten again.

Gail took her into the kitchen, which was filled with the smell of dinner cooking. It was papered in bright yellow, with shining pots silver hanging on hooks over the island counter. She pushed Stevie down into one of the chairs around the small breakfast table and went to the sink to wet a cloth.

"So," Gail said, kneeling down to wipe at Stevie's face with the cool cloth. Tiny sunflowers were embroidered around the edges, bright yellow to match the rest of the kitchen. "Tell me about what's happened."

Being taken care of felt good, good enough that Stevie told the little kernel of pride to shut up and let her enjoy it. She closed her eyes and leaned into Gail's touch. "It's a real long story."

"The chicken's going to take a long time to finish cooking," Gail countered, tapping Stevie's nose with the cloth. "And you need to talk to someone." Her smile was tense, forced around the edges. A new wave of guilt struck Stevie right in the chest. Gail deserved better than to have to handle her mess.

Something must have shown in her expression, because Gail smacked her on the shoulder with the rag. "You stop this silliness right now, Stephanie Anne Rogers," she said warningly, drawing out the vowels like taffy. The fading sunlight in the window caught glints of orange in her hair where the grey hadn't quite taken over. "You're going to talk to me."

Stevie stared, mouth slightly open. He slapped a hand over her mouth, but not before a giggle escaped. The sound was so unfamiliar and feminine that it pulled another laugh from her. "Some things don't change," she snickered. "You still sound like your mother."

"I never understood why my mother was the way she was until I had children," Gail returned with a smile. She caught herself a heartbeat too late, expression softening. "I'm sorry, Stevie."

"No, it's alright." Stevie ran a hand over her face, rubbing her eyes. They still felt hot and achy, even after the cool cloth. Dancing around the topic wouldn't do anyone any good, and it wasn't Gail's fault that she'd moved on. "How'd it happen? Did you— I thought Bucky didn't like girls."

"James was in a bad place after the war, and I was missing you." Gail voice was soft, a little creaky, but nowhere near as different as Bucky's was. "So we kept each other company. It just made sense, and we never had any reason to change." She didn't sound apologetic, but Stevie wouldn't have expected her to. There was nothing to apologize for, no matter how much Stevie's stomach churned at the thought of Gail living her whole life with someone else, even if that someone was Bucky.

"Are they good kids?"

"Some of the best. Three of them." Thin but still-strong fingers tweaked her hair. "So, are you going to stop putting me off and talk?"

Back in the war, she'd always been careful not to give Gail too many details. Sometimes, it had felt good to tell her things, but some things were too monstrous, too horrific to share. She'd never wanted Gail to turn into her agony aunt. Gail deserved better than that.

She leaned her forehead against Gail's chest. "Let's just say it's been a long day."  


***

  
Bruce leaned on the counter and watched the mixture carefully as it combined in the magnetic stirrer. It was some of his latest work on the Hulk formula, and with any luck it would be the penultimate solution.

Over on another counter, the samples from Captain America were carefully marked, waiting for him to examine them again. He was going to have a nearly impossible time extracting the relevant portions of DNA from the samples without taking anything that would be problematic, especially since he didn't know what that would be yet.

They'd been about to go about it all wrong. If it hadn't been for Stark and Fury's interruption, he might have wasted years on a dead end. He didn't need to recreate Project Rebirth; he just needed to use it to stabilize the Hulk formula he'd already crafted.

What was the point in trying to recreate a lost process when he could use the results from it to perfect his own?

The results of the first had already laid Giant-Man out, and it was a flawed specimen. If he could produce a serum that would cross the gender lines _and_ be controllable, he'd finally have proved himself. If he made it so that they didn't need Rogers, Fury would see to it that he got whatever funding he needed, and Pym would stop snickering behind his back. Betty would see that _he_ was the better scientist.

"Bruce?" He yanked upright as Janet Pym poked her head in. She, at least, had the decency to have put on a mask, even though she didn't bother to cover her hair. Her jeans and blouse were still slightly grimy and specked with blood from the failed mission with Hank. "Are you still working? It's long past time for you to take a break."

"I'm fine," he promised, stepping in front of his equipment. Jan wasn't known for her work, but he knew that her Ph.D in biology wasn't just for show. She could have had her name tagged equally with her husband's on the Giant-Man project if she'd wanted to. "I just had an idea I want to see through. It should be done soon."

"Soon enough to catch dinner?" she asked. "The cafeteria is going to close soon. Want me to pick you up something?"

It wasn't like Jan to be nice. Bruce fidgeted, leaning back against the counter. "Sure, that'd be great, but you don't have to."

Her lips curled into a nasty smile. "It gives me an excuse to stay away from Hank for a while. He's bitching about how his left nut hurts and that he was beaten up by a woman. I don't want to deal with it." She gestured around the room. "I could even give you a hand, if you want. Play lab monkey or something."

Possessiveness almost drove Bruce to grab for his samples like a kid with a favorite toy, but he hesitated. Jan _was_ as much a genius as her husband, and it wasn't like she would be doing the actual work. But there was a good chance she'd spot it if something was obviously wrong. "I'm just working on combining the Hulk formula with Captain America's DNA," he explained, watching her expression carefully. He waved her over and spread out some data sheets for her perusal. "If we can get a workable formula from what we have, we won't need the original."

Jan didn't show any signs of unusual interest as she looked down at the information. "Trying to by-pass the whole Catch Her If We Can problem?" she asked wryly. "Makes sense. The way things are going, her next trick will be to blow up Iron Man."

"Stark's not helping," Bruce replied automatically, finger tracing a down the line of hormone patterns. There was a lot less testosterone than he would have expected, and he still couldn't figure out why that was. Classically, testosterone was much more elevated in subjects for all the similar projects he'd researched. And there was something strange in the oxytocin levels...

"He's not?"

Her tone made Bruce blink. "He's not. Something about ethics." Shrugging he picked up the reports. "You know Stark. Probably had a hot date and was weaseling his way out of it."

With a shrug, Jan turned back to the papers. They fanned out under her fingers like playing cards. "Yeah, probably. He thinks he's hot stuff. Hey, this is weird."

"What's weird?" Bruce bent over her shoulder, following her fingers as they moved down the lines of data. "It looks normal to me."

"If you're a breast-feeding mother," Jan snorted, tapping the results for progesterone levels. "Seriously, Captain America was active for years. There's no way she could have had a kid without someone noticing. These results aren't natural."

Bruce yanked the paper away from her, eyes running down the information with new energy. She was right about absolutely everything. "I could _kiss_ you!"

"Now, now, Dr. Banner," Jan laughed, her voice low and sultry. Dirt smeared on the counter where she leaned against it, but Bruce was too happy to care. "I'm married, and what would Betty think?"

Ideas raged through his mind—if he adjusted the hormonal treatments to account for increased testosterone levels in a male subject, it would work. He was sure of it. It would be a huge break for the both of them. Jan wasn't anything like her husband. They could show him up together. "Are you available to run this through with me? If we get this right, we could have results by tomorrow morning."

Jan's teeth flashed in a grin. "Let me cleaned up and we'll eat some food first. And then we'll see what we can do."  


***

  
Conversation over dinner had been informative, if not light. Neither Bucky or Gail mentioned the war, which she was grateful for. But Thor's political focus mixed with Stevie's patchwork of information saw to it that topics stayed moving, and ranged from the mess that had happened in Viet Nam to modern military policy.

"How is that supposed to work?" Stevie demanded, balancing a strawberry on the end of her fork. The hour had long since passed 2000, but they'd lingered so long over dessert that it was getting soggy. "No one talks about anything, and if anyone does, the guy keeping a secret is drummed out? What happened to blue tickets?"

In her opinion, blue tickets had been far from pretty, but a open-faced dishonorable discharge was far worse. She and Bucky'd both been lucky—no one would have dared call her out for something like that, and Bucky'd been safe as her 'buddy'.

"Killed," Bucky grimly, stabbing a strawberry in half. "In forty seven, and the rock kept rolling down hill from there. They're saying it's got _don't harass, don't pursue_ written on there too, but that's not what I hear from Thomas."

"Thomas?" Thor asked. The whole meal he'd been nothing but polite, but Stevie had a hunch that he'd be badgering her to be his little anti-government crusader if he had half a lick to do it in. At least Thor had been open in his opinions, and even said some good things about what the USA was doing for the poor. He looked enormous in the normal-sized seat at the dinner table, eating shortcake off a dish smaller than his palm.

They did indeed use the good china—Stevie was pretty sure she recognized the pattern from Gail's mother's cupboards. Stevie tried not to think about it. The last time she'd seen Gail's mother had been just before shipping out. The woman had given her a tin of cookies and told her to hang on to them, because she'd heard that the food nurses got was worse than what they fed the dogs. Stevie'd hung on to them through three countries before they'd gotten lost on transfer.

"Son-in-law," Gail explained, glancing at Stevie out of the corner of her eye. "Married our eldest girl, Stephanie. They were both in service."

Stevie flushed and popped her strawberry into her mouth before she could say anything thick, like that they shouldn't have. It was too late anyway, and saying things like that had never stopped them.

Besides, if it had been her left behind, she'd have named her daughter Gail in a heartbeat.

"It gets my goat," Bucky was saying as he finished the last of his dessert. "I hear the new man in the White House has promised to repeal, but people say big things to get up to 1600 Pennsylvania, so we'll see."

"President Obama." For the first time since she'd met him, Thor almost sounded approving of a political figure. "He speaks of great dreams. We shall see if they're honestly spoken."

"The future sure doesn't sound much like it's supposed to," Stevie grumbled, putting her fork down. She'd eaten enough for a whole troop, and even though there was more shortcake to go, she didn't want to press her luck. It had been a day full of luck already. Twenty-four hours before, she'd been locked up in a military hospital, with no idea where or when she was.

She wasn't really sure where she was going, but she knew where she was. A couple hundred Axis soldiers had been put down with less information than that.

"It's never the way it's supposed to be." Gail pushed away from her seat. "But it's getting late. Why don't you boys go get ready for bed while we clean up in here." Thor opened his mouth, probably to protest being included in _get ready for bed_, then shut it again when Gail gave him a steely eye.

Stevie grinned. That was her girl.

Bucky nodded and stood up. "Come on, big fella. I'll show you the second guest bedroom and where the towels are at." His hand clapped Thor's shoulder as he passed. Every move was careful, notably more so than they had been earlier that day. Stevie hoped he hadn't pushed himself too far for her sake.

Looking a little like a puppy being trained, Thor followed Bucky, glancing back at the dining room thoughtfully.

"I think they're bonding," Gail chirruped, reaching for the remains of the shortcake.

Stevie got there ahead of her. "Let me. Just tell me what to do and I'll clean up." When Gail's blue eyes glared up at her, she smiled brightly. "It'll make me feel better."

"You don't know where the Tupperware is," Gail reminded her, but eased down into her chair. "Or what a dishwasher is."

"I'll learn."

"Oh, Stevie." A muffled rat-a-tat-tat rose from the table as Gail drummed her fingers over the cloth-covered woods. Wisps of grey had escaped her hair tie sometime during dinner, and fell down around her cheeks to frame her smile. "If it makes you happy. And then I'll show you where everything is. I think I've got a night gown that should fit you. It'll be a little short, though."

"That sounds like Heaven." Every night since she'd left American soil, she'd been sleeping in her leathers, or some version of a costume. Just the idea of wearing something _normal_ was wonderful, even if it did end up being scandalous.

But the offer raised a question. Stevie pressed her lips together as she collected the dishes and the leftovers into a neat, easy-to-carry stack while she worked out what to say. Talking to Gail had never been a hardship before, but it felt like the years that she'd missed wanted to turn into a canyon between them.

"Do you think—" Real silver flatware scraped over china as Stevie stacked everything together, keeping her head down so she didn't have to look Gail in the eye. "Do you think we still have a chance? I know you've got a family now, and you've probably all but forgotten me but..." Her throat started to close again. A hard swallow cleared it enough to speak, but she couldn't get her voice to rise above a whisper. "I love you."

Silence said everything she needed to know.

The tablecloth bunched under her fists, but Stevie took care not to rip it. Lacy frills lined its edges, and there were pretty patterns set into the brocade—it was too fancy to ruin just because she was in a mood.

When the quiet got too uncomfortable, and there weren't any dishes left to stack, Stevie finally looked up. Gail's face was turned down, but the tears dripping off her chin were impossible to miss.

"I'm not going to stop loving you, you know. Just because a few years got between us, that's no reason to give up."

"Stevie, honey—" Gail's voice cracked. She held up one of her hands. It shook, slightly enough that Stevie hadn't even noticed until Gail was trying to hold it steady. "Come here and sit down, sweetie."

Never one to argue too much when Gail had her heart in her voice, Stevie took the seat next to her. She wrapped the thin hand in her own.

It was frail, with blue veins standing out under tissue-thin skin. But it was Gail's, and that was all Stevie needed to make it beautiful. "Nothing's changed," she insisted, not liking the look in Gail's eyes. "Not for me."

"Everything's changed. I'm eighty nine years old. I'll be ninety in a month." When Stevie started to protest, Gail squeezed her hand. "Hush, you, and let me speak. I know that you don't think I'm old, but I am. I've had a good run of it. I've got my children and grandchildren—I've even got great grandchildren. I've got my health, and most people who live to be my age don't have that. And I got to see you again, something I'd never dreamed I'd get. I've had a good life, Stevie, and yours is just getting started."

"I lost my life when I climbed on to that damned rocket. I just forgot to stop breathing." Staring down at the hand in hers, Stevie wrapped their fingers together and fought back the burn in her eyes. She'd cried herself out earlier, and she wasn't going to repeat it. "I don't want to lose you, too. I love you."

"I love you too, and I'm not going anywhere." A hint of steel kept Gail's voice steady, even though she was crying. "But I don't have any years left to give you. I need you to go out and live your life beyond me, because I won't be here to live it with you."

Weight pressed down on Stevie's chest, worse than any physical press could have. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "I want to be with you. That's all I've ever wanted."

"You know that's not true." Gail nodded to one of the pictures that was hung in the dining room. "There's always been at least one thing you love as much as me."

It was an older one, grainy and without the color that Stevie was almost used to. She and Bucky posed side by side in an old propaganda photo from the start of the war, when she'd only seen a few battles and Congress had her doing more photo shoots than fighting.

"God, I look young in that." It wasn't anything she could pin words on, just something around the eyes and the smile. Or maybe she just felt old. Old and tired. When that picture had been taken, she hadn't thought about what it meant to let the government hide her away. Just serving her country had been enough. And after they'd been done with her, they'd forgotten her like a bad dream. "What if they don't want me any more?"

If she couldn't have Gail _or_ her country... they might as well have just left her where she'd been.

"I think your friend Thor would say that there's more ways to serve than by working for the government."

Stevie forced a smile. "He'd say something about corrupt corporate interests too."

She was immediately rewarded by a laugh from Gail. "He would, wouldn't he?" she asked. With one last squeeze, Gail let go of her hand and reached for a clean napkin to dry her eyes. "Let's finish these dishes, and you can think on it after a good night's rest. How does that sound?"

It didn't sound like anything Stevie wanted, but she nodded and turned back to the dirty plates. "Good. It sounds real good."  


***

  
After a hot shower and clean clothes, Stevie felt ready to fall asleep for another sixty-plus years. The loose, lacy nightgown Gail had loaned her had thin straps instead of sleeves, so it didn't pull at her shoulders. What went to mid-thigh on Gail, however, barely managed to let her sit down with any decency. It was a small price to pay for having something clean, though. The lace made her feel a little weird—almost like a _girl_, which was just bizarre. She was a girl, after all.

Soft browns and roses were the color choice for the guest room. It was about the size of her little one-room back before the war, but the colors made it seem cozy rather than tiny, even with the bed and a desk crowding it. Gail and Bucky had both decided to see her to bed, before going to their own. Stevie definitely wasn't sure what to think of that—they _shared_ a bed. _Wrong_ didn't even start to cover it.

"I still don't why you even tried to talk Thor into staying," she commented as she checked the mattress for softness. It was a real mattress too, with a real quilt done in a pretty shade of muave—if she did go back to the Army, she was going to be spoiled for simple comforts. "He's just some madman who has friends that are good with the... net-thing. Whatever you call it."

"Internet," Bucky offered. "And he's a perfectly nice young man." He'd taken a seat at the little desk in the corner, and was still visibly winded from the climb up the stairs. Stevie made a note to ask about that later.

"And he seems to like you," Gail chimed in from behind Bucky's shoulder, in a voice that oozed syrup like a pricked maple tree. "Taller than you. Handsome, too," she added, just in case Stevie didn't catch her meaning.

"Oh, no." A quick twist of the wrist lobbed a cat-embroidered pillow directly over their heads, where it smacked harmlessly against a wall. The impact fluttered Gail's skirt with a soft breeze. "Don't you start that stuff. He thinks he's a god!" Even if Thor weren't obviously insane, he was at least sixty years younger than her. People would talk.

"We're just making a suggestion," Gail explained mildly. She scooped up the pillow and tossed it back onto the bed, next to where Stevie knelt on the blankets. "At least don't write it off just yet. Everyone has a quirk or two."

Of course Gail was setting her up. She was just that type of woman. Stevie could probably call herself lucky that all three of her children were married.

Stevie sighed and fell back against the pillows, carefully so as not to make a spectacle of her legs. It didn't matter that Bucky wasn't interested and Gail had seen them. Some principles still stood on their own. "He's insane. That's more than a quirk."

"Picky, picky." Gail moved out of Bucky's way so he could stand up. "Use the blankets. It gets cold at night, and you never stood a chill well. It would be a fine thing to get you back just so you could catch a bug."

She rolled her eyes, but obediently squirmed under the blankets. They were a little too warm, but she'd slept in worse conditions than that. The lights flipped off, throwing the room into shadow. Her best friends were outlined by the hall light. If it weren't for little details like Bucky's thin hair, or Gail's slightly plumper figure, it could have been a picture from 1940. "Good night."

"Good night, Stevie."

A click of the door, and she was alone. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness enough to pick out the shapes of the furniture. Little noises in the rest of the house let her know when Gail tripped on a bit of rug, or when Bucky had one of the coughing fits he'd been trying to hide from her. Eventually, even those little noises faded away.

Eyelids heavy, warm and comfortable for the first time in too long, Stevie drifted off to sleep.  


***

  
_Stevie watched as Gail wrapped her scarf around her neck. The night air had turned frigid while they'd watched the movie, and every bit of stop-gap against the chill was needed. She waited patiently, leaning on her walking stick while Gail's elegant fingers folded and tucked effortlessly. _

"You're real subtle," Gail teased, eyes twinkling as she finished the last tuck. She wrapped her arm around Stevie's free one, helping her to balance her as they walked out over the icy side walk. "I can see exactly what you want. Looking forward to getting home?"

"And getting warmed up," Stevie admitted sheepishly, pretending that her fingers weren't digging gouges into Gail's arm. They were headed back to Stevie's apartment—something she'd had to give up a lot for, but at least she had it as a safe place when she needed one. But the trip wasn't short, and her bad knee was already creaking alarmingly. By the time they got there, she'd need the help. "I hope the furnace doesn't break again. I'd have to stay with you until I could afford to fix it."

"Daddy loves you," Gail promised. The time it had taken them to eat dinner had displaced her hair, making a lone little curl fall into her eyes. She kept brushing it away, but Stevie liked it. It made her look a character. "I think he'd rather put me out on the street than turn you away. Says you're welcome back whenever you need."

Stevie smiled faintly, more for politeness than anything else. As nice as the Richards family had been when her own threw her out, it still stung. "Your father's an ace. He still taking in stray dogs too, or has he started on baby squirrels from the park?"

Gail paused to laugh, upsetting their balance for a split second. The icy curb skidded under Stevie's walking stick. "I'll tell him you said—Stevie!" The laughter stopped as Gail grabbed her shoulder and waist, keeping them both from topping into a snow bank. For a moment they clung tight, Stevie's stick between them like an unwanted chaperone.

"You okay?" Gail whispered, her breath warm against Stevie's neck. Their legs were tangled, under their skirts and coats, and Gail's bosom rose and fell against the curve of her ribs.

Cold already had her flushed, and that was a good thing, or she'd be glowing like a fresh coal. "Yeah." It was the only word Stevie could squeeze out her throat on short notice. She held on tight, shaking from more than the near fall. "Yeah, I..." Stevie's mind scrambled, looking for something to break the moment, because if she didn't she was going to kiss Gail in the middle of the street. God alone knew who would see them. The day wasn't close enough to gone that they'd have a chance at _not_ being seen. "The furnace?"

"Furnace," Gail answered, nodding slowly. She pulled away, letting the cold air come between them again. Stevie set her stick down and leaned, not caring if she fell just then. Maybe a little pain would get her mind off things. Gail just straightened their coats and hooked their arms again, as if nothing at all had happened, other than two friends helping each other over ice. "Right, the furnace. If it breaks... if it breaks, you're going to marry James, and I'm coming to stay, right? Between us, we can afford to fix a furnace."

Talk of the future was a good way to get her mind off the present. Stevie smiled and let Gail help her balance until they were past the ice and she had to let go or it would look strange. She hung on to Gail's hand though. "And we'll have a house full of kids, watch. Three—one for each of us. Maybe four, if Bucky finds someone."

"And they have your eyes," Gail reminded her cheerfully. Lights from a passing car shined over her face, letting Stevie see her grin. She was so beautiful that Stevie thought she could live a thousand years and never see anyone prettier, but Gail had that sort of effect on her. "We're lucky for James, aren't we?"

It hurt that none of the kids would have Gail's eyes, or her red hair or freckles, but "everyone" knew Stevie and Bucky were together, and had said so since they were little. It could have all been ruined so easily, but they'd been so lucky, and so careful. Trying to switch out brides would just raise eyebrows, and there'd be enough of that when Gail didn't even try to catch a man of her own.

Maybe Bucky would find a friend, and two of the kids could have Gail's eyes. "Real lucky. We should remember to tell him that sometime before we pick a date." He was the one with the most to lose, out of the three of them.

"Already picking a date and he hasn't even got you a ring." Gail's fingers found her ribs under her coat, poking. "I expect to have a say in it, if I'm going to have to look at it on your finger. Nothing too pretty. I won't let him steal you away with a rock again."

"We were eight!" Stevie protested, doing her best to escape the poking. The thick braid she'd pulled her hair back into swung around and almost knocked her in the nose as she stumbled to the far side of the walkway. "Anyway, it was a nice rock. And I used it to make the mudpies we threw at him and Jonny Pierson, remember? So it doesn't count."

"Oh yes. The best pies we'd ever made." Their linked hands stretched between them like a tether. Gail stopped trying to poke her with a foggy huff. "Shame there's no call for mudpies these days. You could be rich."

"It's not the only sort of pie I can make," Stevie pointed out. She didn't dare set their arms to swinging, in case they hit ice again and she lost her balance, but she used it to reel Gail in. Comfortable silence fell between them, thick and gentle. It gave her courage. "I've got tomorrow off, so I'm going to try to volunteer with the WAAC again," she said hesitantly. "Do you want to come with me?"

Gail didn't say anything at first. Her breath came in short little pants, coloring the air white. People passed by in twos and threes, either going opposite them or going their way and dodging out of Stevie's slow path. Gail didn't even look up when they passed. "Sweetie," she finally said, so softly that her voice almost got lost in the noise of a group across the street. "Sweetie, I know you want to help, but you know what they'll say."

"Maybe they'll let me roll bandages," Stevie insisted, jaw setting firmly. It wasn't a pretty jaw—too square and strong to be call girlish, but it helped her bull through when she needed to. And she needed to a lot. "Or take diction. I don't need two good legs to work as a secretary."

"No," Gail admitted. She looked away, but Stevie caught the edges of a smile that looked like her heart was breaking. "No you don't. I guess I'm just lucky you're not a guy, or you'd be set on joining the army. Then where would I be?"

"Do you want to come?" Stevie asked insistently. She squeezed Gail's hand. "Please? So I don't have to walk home alone when they say no?"

A white plume of breath escaped upwards as Gail rolled her head back on her shoulders and sighed. The look she shot Stevie out of the corner of her eye was pure wickedness. "You could try to convince me," she suggested lightly as they turned down the street to Stevie's apartment. "You know, tonight. Girl to girl. I'm pretty convincible if you try right."

She was too cold to blush, but Stevie almost managed it. "I could give it a try," she returned, glancing away from Gail before she could be tempted to do something stupid. "Can't hurt, can it?"

"Nope," Gail agreed, brushing the curl from her eyes. They had to part hands around a street lamp. If they grabbed onto each other a little too fast once it was past, no one was close enough to notice. "And we've got all night, you know. Be creative."

No matter how hard she tried, Stevie couldn't manage to stop grinning. "I'll try to think of something."

An explosion of sound yanked Stevie out of her dream. She was on the move before the building finished vibrating, throwing aside the stifling blanket and reaching for the gun she'd always kept under her pillow. Bare knees scraped rough tent-bottom as she crouched behind her cot, groping for a weapon. Legions of invading troops shouted in the halls, mixed with screams from dying soldiers and the reek of charred flesh.

No matter how hard she reached, her familiar M1911 was nowhere to be found. Panic rolled up into a lead ball in her gut. It was her only solid weapon—she couldn't fight off an entire force with just her shield, what the hell was she _doing_ without her damned gun, she _knew_ better than to risk sleeping without it—

The world slammed into place with a gentle knock on the bedroom door. Stevie panted for air and swallowed back the adrenalin, willing her heart to get out of her throat. Her forehead dropped against the side of the mattress as she grounded herself in little details, in the scratch of lace against her skin and the thick carpet under her.

She was in Gail and Bucky's house. The war was over. The Allies had won. Everything was _okay_.

It didn't feel okay.

Someone knocked again, sharply. A glance at the glowing clock on the bedside said that it was just past 0100 hours. She forced herself to straighten, even though her pulse was still racing.

"Come in."

Gail poked her head in. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, and she was wrapped in a thick blue bathrobe, with matching slippers on her feet. Her face was so pale that even the usual flush of her cheeks was completely gone. "Come see what's on television. It's important."

Ignoring the chilly draft that swirled around her upper thighs, Stevie followed Gail down the hall. Her fingertips trailed along the banister as they made their way down the steps to the den. Bucky was wrapped in a bathrobe too, seated on the sofa in the middle of a bunch of blankets with some sort of plastic, l-shaped thing in his hand.

On the television, the word _mute_ flashed in bright blue, but the picture didn't need an announcer. In vivid, stroking color, an armored truck flew across the screen as some giant, grey monster hurled it like a child's toy. A small group of people seemed to be fighting it, but it barely noticed their efforts. In the background, a giant foot poked out of the rubble of what had once been a mess hall, going by the trash in the remains.

Stevie stared at the carnage as the monster tore through a line of soldiers without pause, leaving the streets painted red in the floodlights. A copper and gold robot fired some sort of laser beam, but the thing just shrugged it off and swatted the robot through another building like a fly.

"HULK ATTACKS FORT HAMILTON: LIVE" was printed at the bottom of the image in bold white.

Indecision wasn't an option. "I have to go help."

Turning on her heel, she dashed upstairs. Her dirty clothes were still folded neatly where she'd left them on the wardrobe. It took all of twenty three seconds to put them on, and another ten to shove her feet into the sneakers. When she pounded back down the stairs again, fully prepared to beg to borrow transport, Gail was already waiting with a set of car keys in hand.

"North to Parkside Avenue, then down to Fort Hamilton Parkway. Be careful," she insisted, voice tight and low. "You just came back. Don't you dare go dying on us again."

Stevie hesitated before snatching the keys and pressing a kiss to Gail's slightly chilled cheek. "I won't." Before she could think twice she ran out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

The car was tiny, blue, and looked like a toy wagon, but it started without protest when she turned the key which was all she cared about. Sharp and cold air prickled her skin while the heater did its best to warm up while. Stevie offered a quiet prayer that the roads _here_ hadn't changed either. North and west wouldn't be hard.

While she was praying, she hoped that the army was able to keep the monster in check until she got there. If it got out into the city...

Her foot jammed down on the gas pedal.  


***

  
"You lie to Bruce, Jan! Bruce trusted you!" Another tank crashed across the pavement, rolling over a dozen corpses before being stopped by a building Tony thought might be a gym. "_Lies_!"

The Hulk's voice was muted automatically by the transmitters in his helmet. Otherwise it would have been so loud it blew the speakers. He worked on pulling himself out of the wall he'd been tossed into without upsetting it any more. The structure had been made unstable already. If he didn't take care, he'd bring the whole thing down.

"You fucking moron, I didn't know he was going to use the original Hulk formula!" Jan screamed, buzzing around Hulk's face to keep him distracted trying to catch her. "I told you to account for the gender differences! This so isn't my damned fault!"

"You lie!" One of the Hulk's great big hands grabbed for her. On Tony's visuals, Jan barely evaded by spinning backwards in mid-flight. Close-up showed an ugly purple bruise spreading across her cheek. "Hulk squish bug lady! Chew her up and swallow!"

Everything was going wrong. The team was too new. Tony hadn't designed anything to take on a creature like the Grumpy-Not-So-Green Giant. And Hank—the only person they had who could hit hard enough to make the Hulk notice—was in the same position Tony was in, except the building was ten stories and keeping him pinned.

He was too sober to be this screwed without a kiss.

"Happy, buddy, you there?" A piece of wall had caught the ankle of the armor. His eyes followed it up, estimating the support it was providing the leaning tower of future-disaster above him. Blasting it was not an option, damn it.

Jan screamed as it was _her_ turn to be batted head over heels, and she didn't have anything but her small size to protect her. Hulk started lumbering towards the line of soldiers that he'd already decimated once, passing out of sight of Tony's sensors. By the smacking of his lips, Tony figured he was going for a snack.

_Right here, Mr. Stark._

Thank God for Hogan. He always sounded so reassuringly in control, even when the world had already gone to hell. "Give me ten percent extra power in just the left leg. Slam it to the whole suit if the ceiling goes. Got it?"

_Roger that, sir. Ready when you are._

Screams and gunfire were worse than the crackle of the Hulk's too-loud voice. "And tell the lady I left that I'm a little trapped here—I think her name is Manda, Mandy, Melissa... Something with an M, anyway. She should get one of the cars to take her home."

Slowly, _slowly_ Tony used the extra power to inch his leg out from the press. Every time he moved, the bricks and rubble shifted alarmingly. The Iron Man had been scratched and dented like a cheap car at a monster truck rally.

"And Nick Fury owes me a paint job," he muttered between gritted teeth as he gave the trapped leg one last yank. Overhead, the ceiling dropped three inches, but didn't collapse. "Okay, Happy, power back to normal. Let's see if I can piss him off enough to keep him distracted while Hank digs free."

_You've got a line on a miracle, boss?_

Metal and rock ground together as he pushed to his feet, stressed servos screeching as he forced them to function. He'd never been able to design the armor in a way that made getting up from a prone position easy. That was going to have to be the next priority, after the new paint job. "Just a prayer, Happy. Just a prayer."

When the armor finished pulling itself upright, Tony climbed out of the hole he'd been in. Half of something blessedly unidentifiable was hanging from between Hulk's giant lips. His gauntlets hummed as the thought scramblers charged. Hulk was too stupid for there to be much to scramble, but it would buy them some time, either for Hank to wake up or for Fury's team to administer the antidote.

Assuming Fury's team wasn't somewhere in the pile of bodies.

"Hey, ugly!" Mad red eyes turned to look at him, a gnawed thigh bone between his teeth. The scramblers on Tony's wrists flashed blue as they finished charging. "No wonder Betty Ross can't stand you any more! Look at you, you look like a chunk of _phlegm_!"

With a roar, the Hulk abandoned his meal and threw himself at Tony. "Hulk gonna rip your head off and eat it!"

Tony hit the jets in his boots, barely scraping by as the Hulk rushed under him. His hands clamped down on each ear. "Eat _this_!" Neural scramblers screamed to life, louder than even the Hulk's roar of pain. The ground shook as the Hulk crashed to his knees, shaking his head and shoulders like an enraged bull.

No matter how hard he tried to hang on, the flailing sent Tony rolling over the pavement with a bone-jarring _thud_. Bits of lank hair and scalp were clutched between his fingers from trying to stay on. A curb slammed into his back, bringing the roll to a stop. At his knees, the joints whirled and sparked, grinding to a loud halt as he tried to push upright. The damage was too much. `Power: 14.3%` flashed in his visuals.

Fifty feet away, the Hulk was still shaking his head and trying to crawl up from his prone position.

Desperate, Tony opened all com lines. "I'm down and I'm not getting back up! For God's sake, get someone to distract him! Happy, get me backup power to that knee joint! Reroute it from the weapons systems!"

_We're working on it!_ Nick's voice called. _There's no one left to hold him—Jan and Hank are both down for the count! Get the hell out of there, Stark!_

Thought, if it could be call that, was obviously coming back to the monster. His head swung in Tony's direction, teeth bared as he realized what had happened. Slowly, unsteadily, the Hulk pushed to his knees.

A single bullet cracked into the pavement. Tony's visuals focused in on the target—it had hit directly between the Hulk's spread fingers.

"Hold it right there, Mister!"  


***

  
Stevie held the gun steady as the monster turned to look at her. She'd seen the other soldiers' bullets bounce off his hide, but she could land a shot in the eyeball if she had to. Behind the monster, the robot jerked as if trying to get up. Something about its movements was frenzied, sickeningly human in its desperation.

In the time it had taken her to drive from Brooklyn to Fort Hamilton, the entire base had been torn down. The only soldiers left in the area were dead, or would have been better off that way. She'd passed the Giant-Man—the one that had _attacked_ her, the bastard—and even he'd been abandoned while he pulled himself out of what looked like three buildings piled in one heap.

The thing was going down, and it was going to go down _fast_, one way or the other.

"You talking to Hulk, pretty lady?" It twisted its body to stare at her, looking over its shoulder.

God, the bastard was big—big and ugly. Floodlights didn't help, making the lumpy, misshapen skull look even more like something from a horror flick. Its skin was a sickly grey, a color the belonged more to a corpse than anything else. "Yeah, I'm talking to you. You want to dance, big boy? You can dance with me."

An evil, hungry smile crept over its face. As soon as it finished turning, she revised her thoughts—_it_ was definitely a _he_, and _he_ was happy to see her. Only people were that sick. "You wanna play with Hulk, pretty? Be Hulk's new girlfriend?"

She fired another shot, planting it square over the delicate tissue of Hulk's jugular. The bullet bounced, but a dark bruise blossomed. Moving one foot at a time over the slippery pavement, she stepped backwards, moving between the abandoned military vehicles.

"I'd rather kiss the robot, you wimp," she taunted. Another shot landed directly over the first, prompting the monster to snarl and swat at the place. "I like my men big and tough. You're too _small_ for me, _little man_."

"Hulk's not small!" The creature lumbered at her, crawling over the remains of crumbled buildings like they were nothing. "Hulk show you! Hulk show you and Betty what you're missing!"

"Little, little man." Ignoring the obvious evidence otherwise, Stevie laughed loudly and gave the monster a once-over glance. "I bet you can't even do it, can you? I could tap dance naked and you'd be limp as a noodle. Poor little boy." A few more steps took her behind the open door of one of the bigger trucks that were designed to carry other vehicles. Its engine rumbled gently in the chill night air, washing a wave of heat over bare ankles. "I'd break a baby boy like you in half, you know. Better off without me. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

Howling incoherently, he charged straight for her, arms spread. Stevie threw herself at the cab of the truck. Curled up with her feet braced on the floorboard, she slammed it into gear and punched the gas. Rubber screeched and smoked before the truck took off. The Hulk was too close to get to top speed, but she aimed it for his hips and gave it everything it had anyway.

Hulk roared, moving too fast to stop his momentum and dodge. Just before impact, Stevie tucked and rolled, bailing out. Pavement scraped her arms and shoulders raw where she tumbled over and over, until she slowed enough to pull herself to her feet.

With a magnificent crash, the truck had slammed into the monster's shins. The bumper snapped snapped audibly as his legs caught under moving truck before sheer momentum dragged him over the hood and along the armor-plated sides. Together, truck and monster crashed into a six-foot pile of rubble.

"That won't hold him." The voice came from somewhere just above. Stevie jerked backwards looking upwards. A tiny woman, about the side of her pinkie, hovered midair. She didn't do it well, though—it was obvious she was in pain from the way she held her arm.

"What the hell are you?"

"It's a long story, honey." The pixie fluttered close enough for Stevie to see that her hair was dark. "We're not done here, here. He'll be out of that in no time."

"Son of a bitch." Stevie looked around for something, anything that might take out a monster that could get up from that sort of blow. Nothing presented itself. She hadn't expected it to. If anything had been obvious, the others would have used it. "What sort of damage can he take?"

"Like this? Anything. We can drop a bomb on the city and it won't stop him." The truck started moving, rocking back and forth. Bricks rolled to the side as the monster started to free itself. "And we want him alive. He's a good man. There's an antidote—"

They were all crazy. "If that thing can do this much damage, like hell I'm leaving him alive." She checked her gun for any obvious damage, and hoped she had enough bullets. "Get me that antidote and I'll try to use it, that's all I'll promise."

The pixy stared at her, then nodded and winged off skyward. Either she was escaping the carnage or she was going to do something useful, Stevie didn't care which. The truck rocked hard to the left, then tilted. Metal and glass screeched and tore as he finished ripping free and fell to the side. Muscles, looking even angrier than before, the Hulk emerged from the hole.

"_You just made Hulk madder!"_ He picked up a piece of building the size of a small car and threw it at her. Stevie dodged, ducking behind a big transport. "Hulk gonna make you scream!"

"You couldn't make a cat scream!" she yelled back, rising out from her cover to fire off another shot, then ducking back low. This time the bullet pinged off his cheekbone, instead of the eyeball shot she'd intended. Hulk didn't even seem to notice enough to swat at it.

"You come out, pretty lady! Hulk show you real good time!" Half a jeep bounced overhead, missing her hiding place by three yards. Keeping low, Stevie ran for another piece of cover, ducking from vehicle to vehicle like a kid playing musical chairs. Hulk was throwing things in every direction, his aim as bad as a drunk man's, but the ballistics were less frequently in her direction.

She wasn't going to get to repeat the trick again. The grey bastard didn't rush her like he had before, watching warily from a distance as he hurled chunks of architecture in her direction. Stevie stayed down and closed her eyes and took a slow breath.

A few feet away, a motor whined. Metal scraped over the asphalt. She opened her eyes.

The robot was crawling over, using mainly its arms. The whine was its knee—sparks and soot were clearly visible along the metal seams. It could move the joint, but every time it bent more than twenty degrees, the metal screamed protest.

"Come out! Come out and fight Hulk!"

Maybe the robot had self-preservation built in. It looked expensive enough to be worth it. Couldn't have been a very strong directive, if it hadn't fled the scene. Stevie ignored it, listening to the Hulk's movements. Every now and then, a flying piece of masonry made it clear that he hadn't wandered off. That was good. As long as he kept attacking her from a distance, she could think of something.

The robot settled against one of the transport's wheels with a loud scrape. "He's working up to come at you again." It's voice was staticy and metallic, but the inflections were too human.

Stevie glanced over, then ducked down as a van came too close to hitting them. "Tell me something I don't know," she hissed. "Does any part of you explode?"

"I have an anti-tank missile. It might annoy him a little." Its head tilted to the side. "Unless you have a plan?"

Goosebumps crawled up her back at the too-human gesture. Robots shouldn't move that like, she was sure of it. "I don't have enough information for a plan. This is just winging it."

"That's not a very reassuring thing for Superwoman to say."

Rolling her eyes, Stevie glanced down at the symbol on her chest, then back up. "You're a robot. What do you know about reassuring?" If she hadn't known better, she would have said its body language looked affronted. "Just fire the damned thing when I tell you to, got it?" The lob and bounce of ballistic buildings had paused for too long. Stevie couched on her knees, peering under the bed of the truck. No giant feet were in sight. "Shi—"

"Hulk see you, pretty lady!"

A shadow crossed in front of the floodlights. Battle-honed instinct had her rolling under the carriage of the transport. Metal crashed as the monster's weight cracked the front axel. The front of the transport smashed down, crumpling like a used hanky.

Stevie kept moving, coming out into the light on the other side and rolling directly to her feet. Too large teeth pulled back into a snarl as the Hulk turned to face her. Every step crunched more metal and glass as he used the transport like a catwalk. Elbow loose, grip firm, finger on the trigger. Stevie sighted down the barrel of her pistol, holding her ground.

Squeeze.

Dark blood squirted as the eyeball popped like a balloon. Hulk screamed, clutching his face, but it didn't kill him. Stevie cursed and fired again, aiming lower. Grey meat burst over his groin, and even in the stillness of battle, Stevie grinned to herself. Just like she'd thought—the tender skin there didn't have the same rock-hard toughness as the rest of him.

The gun clicked empty on her third pull. Her grin dropped away.

"Fire the missile!" she screamed, throwing the empty weapon aside and sprinting for cover. "Into the under-carriage while he's distracted!"

She hadn't been sure the robot would obey, but seconds after her order the whole transport exploded. Heat washed over the demolished square, red flames licking up like hellfire. Roaring, the Hulk launched through the air with the force of the explosion. He crashed into a pile of rubble, creating a crater. A few pieces of rubble collapsed inward, then everything was still.

There was no way that had taken him down. Warily, Stevie stepped toward the crater, eyes sharp for movement.

Something small clinked at her feet. Stevie jumped back. A large hypodermic needle rolled slightly on the uneven surface, its payload a disgusting shade of green.

"Here's the antidote." The pixy woman dropped down to eyelevel. Even though she was tiny, she was obviously panting from the effort of having carried the needle. "Just get it in and this'll be over before you know it."

"I've heard that one before." Never the less, she bent down and grabbed the little thing. It dropped into one of her pockets with too much weight for its small size. "You guys have any help on the way?"

The small woman shook her head. They were so close that Stevie could actually read the anger on her face. "We're all we've got. The nearest troops won't get here for an hour."

"By then, that thing will have leveled New York." Could anything in this time go right? She was starting to think the people in the future were lucky they made it to the future at all. "Keep aerial lookout." Someone that small wasn't good for much else in a fight like they were in.

Rubble rolled and clattered under her as she climbed the pile. It took using hands and feet to keep from sliding back down, and even then a few scrapes left her battered and less a meter along. She kept pushing upward, until the final slope gave way to the top.

Before she could even look into the crater, the whole thing exploded. Stevie flew head over tail through the air, landing on her shoulder blades and skidding. The back of her t-shirt shredded like paper, leaving her back a mess of ground meat.

Stevie groaned and pushed to her feet. Adrenalin was too high for her to feel the pain, but the slight tug of skin across her back wasn't a good sign.

A giant foot caught her in the gut. Ribs cracked as she sprawled backwards, back to the pavement. Another blow took them from cracked to outright broken. Blood dripped from Hulk's mangled penis as he stood over her, fists pulled back for a blow that would take off her head. His empty eye-socket was a mess of gore and meat. It managed to glare as malevolently as the other eye.

Her let shot up, foot catching him right in what was left of his crotch. Ozone filled the air with its sharp, metallic stench. Rock screamed and vibrated as lightning struck. The flare of light outlined Hulk's rictus of pain in sharp shadows.

Stevie twisted to bring her leg up in a higher kick. It took two of them to dislocate his hip, and another snapped his knee at the joint. Hulk writhed, reaching for her with murder in his eyes. Another kick landed in his gullet, not even phasing him as his great hands wrapped around her throat. Air flow constricted, Stevie grabbed for the fingers, trying to break even _one_.

Out of nowhere, something slammed into Hulk's head. He dropped her, staggering backwards. Another blow crashed into his chest, tossing him back a meter. The third slammed across his ribs.

Thor held his hammer ready as he stood over the big grey form. "Stay down! You are defeated!"

Stevie forced herself to breathe as she climbed to her feet. Hulk was already trying to stand on his dislocated knee. Lightning crackled overhead, though Stevie could have sworn it was a clear sky.

"Stephanie!" Thor called to her. "Stand back! Mjolnir can handle this fiend!"

God save her from heroes. If an anti-tank missile couldn't stop Hulk, he thought his toy hammer would? "You think I'm letting some horror reject take out my city?" She rolled her shoulders. Cold night air brushed over her wounds, making her grimace. "Try and stay out of my way, buddy—I've got an idea."

Not giving Thor a chance to play idiot, she dashed towards the monster, ducking under Thor's raised hammer. It wasn't as fast as she usually could run, but it was enough speed to let her jump up on Hulk's shoulders. She swung around, clinging to his head. Both of her legs locked around his neck as she fumbled in her pocket for the syringe.

Hulk twisted and crow hopped, trying to throw her off. His face turned grey-pink as she strangled him in turn. Thor stood like an idiot with his hammer up, chest open for any shot the Hulk cared to take, obviously worried about hitting her.

"Go for the knees!" she screamed as her hand finally closed around the syringe. Amazingly, Thor listened to her, swinging the hammer low. Hulk jumped, but between her weight throwing him off and his dislocated knee he couldn't get enough height in time.

Mjolnir caught him across the ankles. Hulk went down like a chopped tree, falling backwards. His weight crashed onto Stevie as the impact shocked the air from her lungs. It barely phased the monster; he started trying to get up immediately, but at least he wasn't twisting around like a wild bull anymore.

Chest heaving uselessly for lungs that refused to work, Stevie yanked the needle out of her pocket and flipped off the cap. Hanging on tight, she jabbed the thing deep into his neck. Depressing the plunger took too long, every breath another one that might have him jerk and break the needle.

When it the plunger hit bottom, she took an unsteady breath. Whatever had been in the needle took only seconds to work. She hadn't taken her second breath before the giant form shrunk, turning back into a lanky man with only a couple of scratches on him. Even his penis was mostly whole again.

Motors hummed. She turned to see the robot clattering up behind her, obviously about to break down. The pixy woman rode on its shoulder, hanging on by a break in the metal. To her astonishment, it saluted.

"Captain America, _ma'am_."

The broadcast was loud, and the formality pointless coming from a robot, so she ignored it. Aching, tired, and angry enough to take on another monster or two with just her teeth, Stevie pushed to her feet. Thor tried to help with a hand on her arm, but she glared him down and did it herself. "Who the hell's supposed to be in charge of this lunatic?"

"That's SHIELD business. They should be here soon enough to contain him."

Stevie snorted at that. "Soon enough to contain him would have been yesterday."

The faceplate lifted up to reveal the exhausted, slime-covered face of the ass who'd been trying to cop a feel in the hospital. He shrugged. With a human face on the robot's body, it was much less disturbing. "We try."

"Try harder," Stevie glared. "Now, where's that damned general?" She was going to have a few words with him.  


***

  
Images flickered over the television screen, larger than life and still so real that the ashes and grit seemed to roll of the tongue. Tall, blonde and built like the WWFs wet dream, the woman with the Superman logo on her shirt crouched over the naked figure that had been the Hulk. She was a propaganda piece come to life, battered and bleeding, obviously wounded, but she'd seen the fight through to the end. Strength showed in every careful movement, her determination in the set of her jaw and the look in her eyes.

"Captain America, ma'am."

"Those were the words of billionaire industrialist Tony Stark after the battle of Fort Hamilton. White House sources who wish to remain unidentified say that the mystery woman is indeed, Stephanie Anne Rogers, the true Captain America who served in World War Two—"

Tony grinned as Fury turned off the news and slumped down in his office chair. It had been playing footage of the fight all day, and every showing just seemed to piss the General off more. For himself, Tony was pleased with how well the camera had caught the footage. After the news crews had abandoned it, it could have easily been crushed or just knocked off-center. Most of the battle had been recorded from helicopters overhead, but the one on the ground had easily caught the best of the action.

He'd even managed to put his little greeting square in the camera's view. That was something to be proud of, and he'd already helped himself to an extra drink for breakfast in reward. Money couldn't have bought better imagery, from the t-shirt to the explosion, it had all played out like a dream. Betty Ross was having orgasms in her office over it, and reporters were ringing the phones off the hooks.

He'd like to see Fury try and lock her up in a lab _now_.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Stark?" Nick demanded, dropping the remote control to his desk.

"Ha, ha, go team?" When Nick's expression closed, Tony grinned and sipped his martini. It was going on three days since he'd last slept, and he was getting punch drunk on top of his usual. "Come on, Fury, you think you could have still kept her hidden away after that? Even if I hadn't confirmed it, the reporters would have been abuzz about her identity. It was only a matter of time."

"And what if she wanted out?"

The question brought Tony up short. "What?"

Nick looked as tired as Tony had ever seen him. "You heard me. What if she wanted out? She'd been on ice for sixty-five years. God knows how she got into Project fucking Rebirth to start with. We don't know a mother fucking thing about this woman—what if she doesn't _want_ to be Captain America any more?"

"What do you mean, what if she doesn't want to be?" Warm yellow lighting made the room seem cozy, but Nick's expression took a hammer to that. Tony frowned, trying to read it, but for once Nicolas Fury was a closed ledger. "She _is_ Captain America."

"She was. And now she's got her life back. Or she could've had it."

Leather creaked as Tony sank back in his chair. He stared at Nick Fury, seeing a whole new person. "That's what you were doing. You weren't trying to capture her. You wanted to help her."

"If you'd done half the reading you said you did, you'd have seen that I don't having anything to do with that human testing shit. Ask Banner about that. Or Pym." Nick looked away from him, his one good eye unfocused. "That woman's been through hell and back, and I ain't putting her through it again. Not if she didn't want it."

Guilt was a new and definitely unpleasant sensation, a squirming ball of slime in Tony's stomach. He knocked back the rest of his martini needing the hot slide of alcohol. "And I just tied your hands."

"Fucking right you did." A sweep of Nick's arm scattered a pile of folders across the desk, grabbing the top one and waving it like a banner. It was bright red, stamped with so many different security clearance codes that there wasn't room for all of them.

"You see this, Stark? This is what you just broke with your goddamned games." The folder almost smacked Tony in the face when Nick threw it at him. "I've got no choice but to sign her on—the big boys won't let this go now that it's gone public."

Inside the folder were copies of letters, pictures, legal documents—a whole life laid out and stamped Top Secret. Photos were stacked under other papers, most of them of Captain America being heroic, but the first picture caught his eye. Thin, smiling, long hair done up in curls—Stephanie Rogers looked up at him from the top photo, sandwiched between a much smaller woman and a dark-haired man.

And the letters were worse than the picture.

_...I miss you so much...  
....I wonder if the boys who don't make it back have anyone waiting for them...  
...Bucky's doing okay, you should be getting a letter from him soon...  
...glad you're not here, no one should ever see things like this..._

Tony felt like a voyeur as he flipped through them, catching snatches of phrases and names, written in the sort of careful penmanship no one bothered with any more. He shut the folder, bile scorching the back of his throat. Thoughts raced around his head, groping for anything to lay the blame aside. "You don't know, Fury. Maybe she was a volunteer—maybe she'll want to work for you. It's not like she has anywhere else to go."

"I hope you're right, Stark." Fury rubbed his head. "I hope you're right."  


***

  
Stevie felt like she was stepping back in time, or maybe back to _her_ time, as she walked down the hallway to the office at the end. She ached all over—her back was as much a mess as she thought it would be, her cracked ribs had only had a few hours to heal and she was pretty sure she'd broken her ankle sometime while she was being tossed around like a dolly.

But she was patched up, showered and back in American colors—the wise-ass in the robot suit had given her a flag-print shirt to replace the one she'd ruined. The t-shirt had come complete with a bright red, lacy bra. It fit perfectly, which was more than a little suspicious. As grateful as she was for the support, it was still different than being flattened, and she could have done without the note. "_A tribute to the great monuments of America_" her _ass_.

At least she was in her colors again. Maybe it was a but cheesy, but they made her feel a little like her old self, as if she could close her eyes and open them back in 1945.

The illusion broke every time she took a step and her breasts moved or when a passing soldier saluted and said _ma'am_. She wasn't a ma'am—she was Captain America, but she didn't know how to correct them and so let it pass.

Before she reached the end of the hall, the last door swung open. A chastised Stark slunk out. If he'd been a dog, his tail would have been between his legs. When he looked at her, his blue eyes were clouded with emotion.

"Captain."

"Stark." She nodded at the door. "Is the General in? I need to talk to him."

He nodded, eyes rolling down her. "And he needs to talk to you." A touch of the sleaze she'd seen at the hospital touched his face, curving his mouth into a smile that would have been more attractive if he hadn't kept glancing down at her chest. "If this Captain America thing doesn't work, look me up. I've got a few positions you could fill."

Stevie fought the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. She pushed past him to the door, making sure to bump him to the side. "Say that again, Mister, and I'll teach you to sing soprano."

"I didn't—"

The office door slammed in his face.

"Tony giving you a hard time?" Fury was seated at his desk, straight and tall in his chair, looking exactly like the sort of man who'd make it to General. It would have been as normal a picture as she'd ever seen if folders hadn't been scattered across the desk like some paperwork apocalypse. "Don't take it personally. He's got a weakness for anything on legs or in a glass."

"If he makes a move on me again, I'll give him a weakness all right." Keeping her eye on Fury, Stevie eased herself into the visitor's chair. It was leather, and still warm—probably from Stark. "What am I doing here, sir?"

"Well, to start, pretending to be a hooker?" He grinned. "Good one. I bet that flew damned well back in the war."

"Like a bird." Chatting with him, it was hard to remember that he was the man who'd given his people the okay to use that dirty trick in the alley. "But you know that wasn't what I meant."

"No, it wasn't." Like a ghost, the grin vanished. Fury leaned forward, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed. "I'm going to offer you a job, Captain. Your government needs you again, and finding you was a stroke of luck I can't afford let pass."

Stevie met his eyes and leaned back in the chair, keeping her body language carefully relaxed. She'd known it was coming, had been thinking about it since the cleanup crews arrived. "What makes you think I want to work for the people who wrote me out of the history books?"

"What makes you think you get a choice, lady?" A red folder slid across the top of the others. Fury flipped it open, tapping the stack of papers. "Those're your records. I don't see any discharge papers in here. That means I still own your ass."

Eyes narrowed, she leaned forward to look down at the paper work. The sheer amount of it startled her—there were things in there that she didn't even know the government cared about. One of her report cards from school poked out, gone yellow and brittle with age. "Nice collection. But it's missing something important, General."

"And what's that?"

Smiling sweetly, Stevie batted her eyes like a starlet posing for the camera. "I have sex with women."

Fury's jaw dropped open.

"See, I know about that don't ask thing," she continued in a gentle tone, "and I think it's full of shit, but it means that you've got to let me go or you're breaking the law." Carefully, she lifted his hand off the folder, closed it, and pulled it in to her lap. "Now, here's what we're going to do. You're going to give me my discharge papers, dated back to 45. If you don't, I'll march straight to the nearest news paper office and sing my song like a robin in spring. One way or the other, I'll be out."

The desk rocked a Fury shot to his feet, slamming his hands down on the desk. "Son of a mother fucking _bitch_, you—"

"And _then_." Stevie raised her voice to speak over the cursing. "And then you're going to hire me on to do the same damn thing you just tried to railroad me into."

He goggled. He didn't really have a good face for it—the lines were too sharp. Slowly, he eased back into his seat. "What the hell kind of game are you playing at?"

"I still want to serve my country, General, but I'm going to do it on my own terms." Stevie ran her fingers over the red folder, tracing one of the clearance stamps. Anger was a slow burn, sliding up through her stomach and taking the edge off her wounds. Even her letters to Gail were in there. "I've been screwed over too many times since I signed up for Project Rebirth. People have lied to me, hidden information, even copied my personal correspondence." Picking up the folder, she slapped it down on the desk. Other papers fluttered and slid to the floor from the force of the blow.

Glaring, she met Fury's eye. "I've given up my life for this country, and I was written out of the book for it like some kind of dirty secret. I'll be damned if I'm going to be G.I. again. I do this as myself, as a woman, or you can watch me walk."

For a minute, she thought Fury was going to attack her. His hands clenched the arms of his chair so hard that the leather burst. Then he relaxed, the tension flowing out of his frame like water from a faucet.

"You got yourself a deal." He held out his hand. "Welcome to the team, Captain America."  


***

  
_If there were one thing Stevie Rogers felt grateful for, it was that she wasn't a guy. She and Gail could hold hands in public, and no one thought anything about it, but Bucky had to be a lot more careful with his beaus. They couldn't walk too close, couldn't hold hands, couldn't even look too affectionate. She didn't know how she'd be able to get through the day without being able to hold Gail's hand._

Much better to be a girl, even a girl with a gimp leg.

"I see what you're thinking," Gail murmured as Bucky and his newest friend appeared around a corner, leaning up until her lips almost brushed Stevie's ear. She'd done herself up a treat, with lipstick and her mother's pearl earrings, and she'd curled the ends of her red hair just the way Stevie liked it. A big grey overcoat hid her clothes, but Stevie thought they were bound to look as nice as the rest of her. Next to her, Stevie felt like a mess. It was a shame they couldn't go anywhere else but an old diner. "You stop feeling sorry for them, Stephanie Rogers. They wouldn't thank you for it."

"I wasn't feeling sorry for anyone!" Stevie protested, wrapping her hand in Gail's warmer one. It was snowing in New York, with a freeze scenting the evening air. Cold always got to her, being too tall and skinny to have much protection against it even with layers and layers of clothes on. Her bad leg was already aching for the coming weather. "I was just being grateful for you."

The look Gail gave her said louder than anything that if they weren't in a public street, she'd have gotten to experience up close exactly how Gail felt in return. Instead, she just squeezed Stevie's hand. "I'm grateful for you too, you know," she whispered, so low it was almost lost in the sound of the cars going past. "Every day of my life."


End file.
